The Guardian Brotherhood
by stormsandsins
Summary: It's 7 years after the fall of the Dark Lord. Hermione has been trying to get on with her life and forget the night Ron Weasley died. But the night a long-ago symbol appears outside her window, she gets more mystery and excitement than she wished for.
1. Prologue

PROLOGUE :: MOONLIT VISION

I was at the bay window when it happened. Three years of battle had ingrained a sixth sense in me when it came to unexpected magic. I had learned to recognise the signs of an attack or of an ambush long before it ever happened upon us, which had come in especially handy whenever we walked in uncertain regions. By the time the Death Eaters would come out, we would be ready to repel them head-on. So when, sitting alone comfortably in my favourite rocking chair, bundled up in a warm plaid and about to turn the page to the muggle novel I was currently enjoying, I felt the telltale tingling begin in my toes, I knew something was about to happen.

The light from my reading lamp flickered a moment, and then it suddenly gave out, along with every last electric appliance in the flat. Not a sound was to be heard in the street, not a movement to be seen. Everything was dark and gloomy.

I realised belatedly that I had been holding my breath, motionless, the muscles of my arms and back taut like a stretched bowstring. Abandoning my book, I flung it on a nearby tea table and grabbed my wand from the tea table. Slowly, I inched my way to the living-room bay window. With trembling fingers, I pushed aside the curtain, looking far, far into the night, searching for the source of this incredible magic but not finding. How could I, in this darkness?

I knew, though, without a doubt, that the attack would come. Soon. Very soon. I could feel tremendous amounts of magic brewing all around the flat, becoming more and more potent by the second. It was almost palpable, as though fit to burst. It was threatening. All-encompassing. I almost choked on the strength of the magic being gathered all around the flat, around me, but concentrated instead on waiting, preparing myself.

You never get used to those few seconds before an attack. Waiting… for anything: for a tiny flicker of movement, for the littlest sound of a wand being drawn, for the battle to break out unexpectedly. I hated the wait. All I could think about were my possibilities and chances. Had they seen me? How many were they? From the force of the magic I could feel coursing every which way, it felt they were a lot. Could I make a quick escape, then? Could I risk Disapparating?

It seemed you had a lifetime to think through your next actions for the next few seconds. And yet, it only ever lasted a few milliseconds. But the questions did pass through your mind at the speed of light. Would you live? Would you die? Would you get injured? Would you come out unscathed? No matter how many times you were attacked, you never got used to the wait. It was prime torture for the mind.

It changed you forever.

Unable to stop myself, I couldn't help but keep replaying in my head the very few fleeting memories I had of the last time I'd been in this situation… trapped. The last battle of Spinner's End. I had awoken after everything was over to find myself trapped in the debris of Snape's house, with no recollection of how or when I got there. I had been lucky then – I had just felt a glowering pain in my shoulder where a Death Eater had slashed the flesh and cut through the bone – but I had also lost a lot. That night I lost… everything. My hope, my faith… and a great part of my soul as well.

I was never the same.

I was suddenly jostled from the painful memory by the abrupt sound of crackling thunder nearby. The night was eerily quiet in contrast. Cool, but quiet. The rain had stopped, and now the street was bathed in glistening moonlight. Every lamp in the street had gone out. I shivered. It was close. I could feel it, taste the raw power on my tongue, and it terrified me.

I was alone. I'd have to fend them off without help.

I had done it, once. I shuddered, remembering, or rather not remembering the next few instants, or maybe minutes. Perhaps hours. And waking, and wishing I'd never awoken. Physical pain hadn't compared to what I had felt then.

No. That was the past. I could do it this time. I could.

I made to go outside before I would stop myself, but held back when a quick movement caught my eye. I had seen it: a tall, dark shadow lurking on the lawn. Squinting, I searched the place where I had just seen the glimmer of movement. The next instant it blended into the night. I held my breath, staying rigid, frustrated. Why was it taking so long? I couldn't see a damn thing out there, and I didn't want to risk a _Lumos_ in case they hadn't seen me.

And I thought, hoped more like… This couldn't be a Death Eater attack, could it?

I didn't have to wait much longer to find out. All of a sudden, I shrieked, swaying back on my heels as plumes of fire flared out of nowhere mere metres away and weaved themselves together to create a symbol in mid-air that slowly hovered lower and lower still until the flames touched the dew-touched grass. Even when they sputtered and died some moments later, I stayed perfectly still at the window, unable to move or even blink as the smoke rose steadily up into the night.

I had seen many dreadful things and felt many moments of incomparable pain in all my twenty-seven years of existence, but nothing so far had ever compared to feeling my heart being twisted and crushed at the same time. I had no breath left in me, and when my legs finally gave out under me, I crashed onto my knees and wept, the symbol as burned into my memory as it was into the ground.


	2. The Survivor

_Author's Note:_ I'm sorry, guys, a habit of mine is to keep changing names so they're _just_ so. So. Donald Fairbanks has been renamed Bert Clarke. For reasons entirely my own. From now on he shall be known thus. :)

* * *

CHAPTER ONE :: THE SURVIVOR

I might have sounded hysterical over the phone when I was able to reach Harry. I don't remember much of the next instants – or hours, likely – after seeing the Triquetra symbol etched on the lawn, but by the time he Apparated home he sounded pretty frantic.

"What's going on? What's happened? Are you hurt?"

Seeing as I was only able to tremble in response without crumbling into pieces, he grew even more concerned and latched onto my arm, searching my body for evidence of a struggle. His hands were shaking as he cupped my cheeks. "Did they hurt you? Look at me, Hermione. Did they attack you?"

My mind kept going over the night's events. It hadn't been a Death Eater, nor a group of them. I hadn't been attacked. I knew that now. I wanted to tell him that, so badly, but every time I rose my eyes to reassure him, they fell onto the window and I was left even more speechless. Something was escaping me; it was just at the tip of my fingers … if I could just … I'd never felt so much magic before, centered around one person, and yet … there had only been one. I had felt that. And yet it was so much more, and I felt panicked as I tried to make sense of everything that had happened in those instants that felt like hours but were possibly just seconds. Maddening.

The Triquetra symbol. We had invented the spell to cast it, Harry, Ron and I. Oh, the symbol itself wasn't hard to draw with a wand, but the spell that accompanied it … Thinking of it now took me back to the morning of the last battle, the last morning that the three of us were together. Throughout the War, we had used a stylised triquetra to represent the Light side. Our troops wore the symbol proudly, knowing it represented our unity, as a band of rebels, in hope, faith, and love. When we set up camp somewhere, Harry and Ron always wished to mark the place with their presence, if only for a few hours. So I, along with their help, had devised the auto-erasing spell that left no magical trace after it disappeared come morning light, and we started using it secretly everywhere we stayed. Just the three of us.

That morning, hours before battle broke out, we cast it one last time. A lot of feeling was put into the spell. We all knew this was it. The last stretch. The last morning before it was all over. We had all the information we needed; it was up to us to succeed. And we did, at that, but not all of us together.

It made no sense at all. No one else but the three of us knew the words to the spell. And Harry was at school when the spell was cast earlier. It certainly wasn't me. Unles … no.

"Harry," I managed to choke out.

"Oh my God." I hadn't felt him leave my side. He was at the bay window, looking down where the symbol continued to smoke, as I knew it would until morning. I couldn't see his face, but the hand holding his wand aloft in case of danger shook in the moonlight as he lowered it to his side. His other hand went into his hair as a gusty sigh escaped him.

"Harry –"

A wild look swam in his eyes as he finally turned to me. "You stay here." And with a 'pop', he was gone.

I crumpled into my seat. Dammit, what was going on?

* * *

Against my better judgment, I stayed up all night wanting to be there when Harry returned. I knew where he'd gone: to that school of his, Syn Wyngyn. Seven years ago, after Harry came out of St. Mungo's more battered and battle-worn than I'd ever seen him, he announced he was leaving. No one knew where he was going, but I had an inkling it wasn't for a short trip to relax … I knew it was going to be a long journey before he accepted the deaths of so many around us: Parvati, Lavender, Dean, George, Ron…

To this day, Harry still blames himself for their deaths … Ron's most of all. In a way, his was hardest on Harry, even though I still cried for him at night. Harry had always had this idea in his head that he alone needed to protect those he loved. Ron knew exactly what he was doing, though, and never needed protection from anyone to do what was right. So, if he died in the end, it was his choice entirely. In honour and courage, above all.

When Harry came back after two years Godric knew where, still lost but much improved in mind and body, we stayed together, and started getting out together. I went to law school, Harry to Auror training, and then Syn Wyngyn.

Syn Wyngyn was a little-known training school and operations base offering much the same training as Aurors received at the Ministry, but there they trod much deeper in defense and espionage. If a comparison could be made, I'd wager Syn Wyngyn operated a lot like governmental associations such as the American CIA or the British Security Services of the MI5. All I knew was that Harry was a few exams and physical tests short of becoming fully operational. His Auror training had probably helped him climb the ladder faster. Sometimes he attended classes, other times he was scheduled all night for surveillance and field operations – assisted, of course.

The secrecy surrounding it all drove me up the wall on my best days. But he was with me, and while it was nice to have someone with me when I needed them, it had made me feel varying degrees of guilt at first. The memory of Ron and his one promise still fresh on my mind, I had felt disgusted with myself … I couldn't face Ron's family without tearing up. But Harry was all I had anymore.

I suppose it was with this thought that I fell asleep in the wee hours the next morning. I didn't sleep well, and no wonder. My mind kept trying to make sense of the symbol just fading outside. It certainly couldn't wrap itself around what it implied though my heart and gut tugged and twisted.

Ron was alive?

* * *

I woke up just after eleven with a roaring headache. Still no news from Harry. The flat was as eerily quiet and as undisturbed as I'd left it. I sighed, pulling myself out of the rocking chair I realised I'd slept in. Several limbs cracked in protest as I straightened and I couldn't decide whether I felt better or worse after so doing. Sluggishly, I shuffled over to the kitchen, rubbing my sore neck, and decided to grab a muffin to quell my growling stomach. I reckoned I needed a good shower. My hair felt ghastly, my nightdress clung to my frame uncomfortably. As I entered the bathroom, the mirror over the sink just couldn't help a chipper: "_You_ need a kip, sunshine."

Shooting the mirror a deadly look, it probably feared I'd smash it if it even quaked, for it remained suspiciously silent. I half-heartedly finished my muffin. I didn't need this. I didn't need a bloody mirror to remind me of the way I looked and felt. There were far more important things at this time! For _years_, I had probably believed a lie. Sure, an unimaginable lie, but … How – no, I wouldn't cry, I _would not_ cry.

Christ. A lie. But how? Seven years ago, I accepted the general conviction that Ron was dead, pulverised like the rest of Spinner's End. No one had ever really agreed when or how, but there it was. We all believed it, and it made it all the more real for everyone. And yet, as I stood there, looking at the dark circles under my eyes, I couldn't stop the sobs racking my body. I couldn't believe it. I wanted to, yet didn't. My mind couldn't wrap itself around those four words: _Ron might be alive_. It was insane, yet some small part of me – my heart, I decided – wanted to believe it. Desperately. Because all these years, I had never asked for proof. I just instantly believed that Ron's fate had rung out that night. _How could you?_ a voice that wasn't mine reproached. How could I have done this to him? To his family? To his memory? Hadn't I loved him? Hadn't we promised never to stop?

What a lover.

_It's your fault._

And suddenly, all these years of tears already shed caught up to me, stronger and more oppressing than ever. I gasped, trying to rein my emotions in, but helpless to them. Clutching the sink hard, knuckles white with the effort, I let it wash over me: seven years of pain multiplied tenfold bringing me sinking to my knees onto the hard tiled floor.

_It's your fault. You let it happen._

* * *

My sobs slowly subsided, but I remained kneeling, my sweaty face pressed to the cold porcelain of the sink. My headache was back full on, fat tears still clung to my eyelashes, and I felt just as terrible as before. But I needed to get up. I needed to go to the Ministry and to Spinner's End. My conscience just couldn't take it anymore.

Pulling myself together, I stood and breathed in deeply, a woman as in charge as I could muster. I reached for the tap to splash my face when I felt something move in the room. Looking up, my eyes locked onto a dark shadow in the corner of the mirror and I shrieked, only to be immediately silenced with a huge, calloused hand.

"Bloody hell, woman, not so loud," the hooded figure said as I struggled to wrench myself free. At the sound of the intruder's voice, my heart stopped. I looked down. A freckled and scarred hand was keeping me from speaking. Slowly, he released me, and shifted into the light.

My knees buckled once more, and I reckon my eyes were as wide as saucers, because I could not believe what I was seeing. He stood back, eyeing me apprehensively as I clamped on the sink to keep from falling, and it was all I could do to keep myself from bursting into tears again.

_You let it happen._

I was looking at the so-familiar face from long ago, yet it was like someone had made blatant mistakes rendering him from the millions of images I cherished in my memories. That scar on his ginger brow was wrong; the depth in those cobalt pools was strange, virtually unrecogniseable, and uncomfortable. He was taller still than the last time I'd seen him. Stronger. Bigger. That maturity, so present in the calm he exuded, was foreign. That weariness, as though he'd fought a thousand battles since Spinner's End, overwhelmed me. And while the more obvious features were right and completely familiar, the rest were wrong and frightening. I was looking at an attempted replica of Ron Weasley. "R – Ron?"

I turned around, half-expecting the vision in the mirror to fade, but there he still was, standing at attention and eyeing me with an unfathomable expression that unnerved me.

"It's me."

* * *

Harry slammed his way into the women's changing room, not seeing anyone nor anything, nor caring for the surprised shrieks his presence elicited as he ploughed past row after row of gym lockers. She should be here. Why wasn't she here? He hadn't been able to find her all of last night; she hadn't stayed at Syn Wyngyn, she hadn't gone to The Burrow for dinner, she wasn't at her flat – and _Merlin_, she should have wards around her flat, who knew who could barge in at any time of day? Didn't she learn anything from her training? – and it had driven him up the wall in a right state all night at Syn Wyngyn, doing idle research in witness accounts of the Second War with half a mind while the rest wondered where the _hell_ she was.

And now… she _should_ be here. She hadn't clocked in enough physical training hours last week. This week would be her catch-up one. Unless she was already out there, swimming laps or lifting weights…? He knew she liked doing her cardio in the huge Olympic pool. She could sweat all she liked without feeling it. Harry preferred lifting weights himself.

Oh, where_was_ she?

"Harry?"

Too preoccupied by his inner blatherings, he hadn't been paying attention anymore to the task at hand: finding Ginny Weasley A.S.A.P. Doubling back at the sound of his name, he suddenly came face to face with her. She had changed into street clothes, as she was attending a class in Muggle Integration and Association later. A striped white-and-green v-neck woolshirt curved over her lithe figure, giving him the impression of a pale wood nymph, as blue denims hugged her thighs and reached snug little brown sneakers. She was clearly feeling like relaxing today, he decided, reaching her face and momentarily struck as he watched her wiping her gleaming neck, cheeks and brow. That was when he saw her peering up at him with a concerned frown. "Are you lost?"

She now reached up and tugged her wet hair free, drying it with the towel. Harry followed the trail of a lone bead of sweat down her temple and onto a white stripe of her shirt, watching it spread onto the now translucent fabric. Suddenly he jostled as he heard voices whispering down the lockers, and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Harry Potter … did you know … Ginny Weasley … at Hogwarts…"

"What's he doing … women's changing room…"

_Women's changing room?_

"Oh God!" he exploded. "I didn't – I mean–" Dropping his gaze – which he felt was intensely on fire – he was now very conscious of where he was standing. In the middle of a changing room full of very half naked women. He rubbed his neck vigorously before licking his lips and raising his eyes to Ginny's soft brown ones to avoid any other part of her. Clothed or unclothed. "I was looking for you all night. Where were you?"

Ginny looked at him a moment as though he were thick. "Home!" When he was about to point out that she _wasn't_, she chuckled. "In my new flat, you dolt, I moved in last month." Shaking her head, she returned to her locker and began rummaging through it in search of some object or other.

"Oh." Harry felt his neck heat again, then dropped his head and mumbled, "I, er, didn't mean to barge in like that. But I need to talk to you." He looked up then, all embarrassment now gone and replaced with a seriousness that unsettled even him. "Now."

She stopped sifting through her disorderly locker and shot him a stunned look, cocked eyebrow and all.

Realising his blunder – oh really, Harry, _never _drag a woman out of the loo… or changing room, as it were – he hastily added, "But, er, I can wait, er, outside. If you want."

Bloody hell, someone toss him into oblivion, but he sounded like an addleheaded teenager all over again! Internally cringing at himself, Harry decided that _now_ was as good a time as any to make a hasty exit and post himself by the lone corridor that led to the equipment storage room and avoid any further mortification in the form of a female body for as long as it took for Ginny to walk out. Merlin on high, what a dunce he was.

Things were strange with Ginny. She was great and a terrific team partner, but too much had changed between them in seven years. He supposed his leaving after the war had ensured the odd indifference she constantly treated him with… and with perfectly good reason. Sometimes he wondered what his life would have been like if he hadn't broken things off with her in sixth year, if he'd gone back to her after the war. _Coward_, he thought, unable to keep the tone of disgust even from his inner voice.

But she'd still come, just hours before the final battle, blazing as ever though tactfully careful not to let her eyes linger too long on him. he'd caught her looking – once – while firing off last-minute instructions to the Order members.

_Longing_.

And then it was gone. A lost man he'd have been if she hadn't walked away with the rest. He'd felt deeply humbled by the fierce dedication with which she then threw herself into the fray. For a long moment he felt lost, scared, proud, all at once. And then it was all over, and Spinner's End was nothing but rubble, and something dark, suffocating, twisted his heart and lungs, keeping his breath locked in place. He was choking on pain. Who had survived? Had she? Had Ron? Had Hermione?

It was then he knew, without a doubt, that he'd never forgive himself if one of them had fallen. Forget nobility, forget the hero complex. These were the lives of those he loved more than anything. It was his fault if one of them had died.

Ron did.

He fled.

Not out of fear of the Weasleys' response, not out of fear of death itself. Hadn't he seen enough bodies fall for him, for his supposed cause? Ron's death was too much to confront. They'd been through too much for his death to be comprehendable.

He'd intended never to see the Weasleys again, like Hermione who couldn't bear to see their faces as they reminded her too much of Ron. but one night, after a long field practice, he bumped into Ginny on his way out of Syn Wyngyn's Greathall. No one knew exactly where the place was. Even now, Harry still didn't know. So it had come as a bit of a shock to see Ginny Weasley stumbling out of the designated Apparition ward in the Greathall.

Harry still remembered her pink-tinged cheeks as she showed him, dumbfounded, the anonymous letter that had come to her flat, and the translucent bubble bobbing just out of her fingers – a talisman for safe Apparition into Syn Wyngyn. From there, he'd found that it wasn't actually so hard to talk to her again. Besides, the next thing he knew, he was being assigned as her mentor, having graduated out of needing a mentor himself, and was helping her with the hardest subjects. In return, she started teaching him basic Healing.

And yet, he thought again, things were strange. Harry couldn't explain it; half glances, frowns, sarcasm, awkward touches and even faster retreats. He couldn't think on it too long, though; his senses must be alert in the course of any practice or during real-world field work. But then he always thought back, and damned himself right to hell. He was engaged, for Christ's sake.

_Harry James Potter, you are doomed._

"Thought you'd be hiding here."

Harry winced, and chanced an eye open. She'd covered herself, as was evidenced by the dark school robes she wore over her her clothes. She was leaning against the wall behind him, grinning, though it wasn't quite reaching her eyes.

"That was–" he started.

Ginny hitched her bookbag higher over her shoulder, the smile disappearing. "So what was the emergency?" she cut him, not quite meeting his eyes as she asked.

Uncrossing his arms and straightening, Harry grabbed her elbow and led her to the giant swinging doors leading to Syn Wyngyn's main building. Empty classrooms lined up on either side of the even emptier corridor, with the occasional few lighted rooms. Shouts and cries erupted from a combat practice room. The pair automatically dodged a rogue Leg-Locking Jinx as they passed an open door, then veered left toward the student and staff cubicles.

Leading her toward one near the end of the hallway, Harry pushed her in, Unperturbed it, and turned to find Ginny staring at him with her arms crossed in front of his desk, expectant. He rather expected her to start tapping her foot impatiently. She did not look happy.

"Okay," Harry started. "First off, I'm not daft."

She snorted derisively, but gave no retort. It unnerved him, actually. Weasleys did not seethe quietly. Especially not this Weasley.

"It actually concerns you," he said carefully, and averted his eyes – again. "I thought you should know because… because it's about Ron." He paused, not willing to look up yet. Oh, she'd surely think him daft now, asylum material, please toss him in A.S.A.P. he's not right in the head. "I _think_ it's about Ron," he amended. "I think he's alive."

Harry raised his head. He didn't know what he should have expected. A flood of tears? A mean left hook? Angry pissing words? Definitely not this awkward silence, nor the frail, vulnerable expression she wore now. Ginny Weasley was _not_ defeated, it just didn't ring true. Her arms hung to her side. She sank onto his desk, blinked, and he saw her throat fight back tears, her chin quivering. The small redhead lifted her gaze to him as though she didn't understand his words. "Harry?" she asked, confused.

Harry walked closer and awkwardly knelt before her, taking her smooth hand in his large ones. He wanted to stroke it 'til she calmed, 'til things were much better and not so out of control. Merlin, but he didn't know what the hell was going on himself, but forced himself to explain. He'd hate himself if they were all hoping in vain, but he'd seen Hermione's haunted gaze, and it spoke volumes. There was also the evidence that had gone up in smoke the moment the sun dawned. "I saw the Triquetra tonight, Gin. It was real," he said quietly.

Her brows drew, and she bit her lip, burrowing her head into the crook of Harry's neck as he rose, holding her close. "No, no, it can't be him," she choked into his skin. "I can't be. He's dead – He's–"

Harry pulled off a weakly thrashing Ginny and looked deep into her eyes, reigning in a calmness that astounded even him. "He knew the spell. Him, Hermione, and me."

She drew in a gusty breath, tears falling freely now, and exploded. "He_dead!_ How dare you!"

* * *

It killed him. It really killed him.

"He's_dead!_ How dare you!"

She fought back when he tried to grab her fists. She was pounding his chest, his abs, his shoulders, anything she could fist her way into, and for a second he was scared she might succeed in killing him. Ginny was made of tough stuff, even more so now that she'd been trained to kill if need be. Well, it seemed she needed to kill him.

God, did he know the feeling…

When she aimed a bit higher than his chin, Harry decided he'd had enough. Growling low in his throat, he ducked the blow and clamped down on her wrists, twisting, backing her into the wall. There she hissed sharply, face distorting in pain, yet still she held on, fighting back, kicking him now that her upper body was trapped. Harry insinuated himself between her legs, pushing into her with his whole body, and stared, panting, into her face. He only fought half-heartedly, only deflecting her blows, only blocking her, never using blunt force to restrain her.

Ginny finally ceased combat, slowly, as though her emotional force was leaving her. Harry released her, and watched her sink onto the floor, hugging her knees, unseeing. Gingerly, he sat cross-legged in front of her and waited. Harry didn't know what he was waiting for, but he waited there and watched her silently. She should make the first step, he decided. And he silently congratulated himself on knowing her so well when she did, without any more animosity.

"W – where did you see it – him?"

She wouldn't meet his eyes anymore, as though their battle of wills had taken the fire from her self-confidence. Harry did not look away.

"I didn't see him. Hermione and I only saw the symbol. I think she saw it being spelled. She was in enough of a fright when I came home that…. I think she might have seen him, too. But he wasn't there when I Apparated in. I don't know what happened. All I know is, there was that symbol on our lawn."

She frowned, and sniffed. "Why would somebody do that? Ron wouldn't do that, it's not his type," she said quietly.

"Who knows?" Harry replied just as softly. "Seven years change someone. Who knows if it's his type anymore?"

She looked up pointedly. "People don't change so easily."

Rubbing his neck, Harry shrugged. "You'd be surprised," he mumbled to his folded hands on his lap.

There was silence for a moment, then, "Harry I – I'd like to know something…"

Holding his breath, Harry looked up into her eyes just as she looked away. He caught a glint of amber. He nodded wordlessly, not trusting his voice yet knowing she couldn't see him.

"Do you think … please be honest … do you think he could have survived? Do you think there's a chance he might have lived?"

"I want–"

"Answer me," she shook her head, glancing up, and this time he saw tears again. "No empty wishes, just answer me. Give me a theory."

Harry couldn't move for what felt like an eternity. He felt nailed down to the floor, body and mind. Scrambling through his fleeting memories, he couldn't possibly disprove any theory. Hell, even during battle he'd only been half there. It had been what he would today pin down as a pure desire for survival that had driven him. Adrenaline, if he were a man of science. He couldn't honestly tell for sure if he had seen his best friend go down – or rather up in dust – and that was what had maddened him for the longest time – perhaps still haunted him. Yet there was proof that he had no proof. And a perfect theory to boot. Perhaps the lack of proof was just that – no proof that Ron had died at all.

"Yes," he answered feverishly, bursting forth and collecting Ginny into his arms. He buried his nose into her chlorine-and-jasmine scented hair, emotion choking him though he needed to speak, needed to tell her he believed. "Yes, I think he lived. And I'll do anything to prove that."

He felt her smile into his chest. "You have no idea how much that means to me," she whispered.

They stayed embraced a long time, neither wanting to disentangle. When finally Harry's watch beeped the hour, he gently released her. "You have a class to go to."

"I'd rather stay here. Work on that," she blushed.

A foolish grin really wanted to work its way into Harry entire face. Astonished, he buried it deep. "Er, yeah. So, um, just a question, I'm sorry if it's not exactly … tactful–"

She cocked her eyebrow in an 'oh _please_, as if you ever are', and he almost wanted to grin again.

"Right. Er. So did you ever see … you know … a green light … or maybe…" He trailed off when he saw not a pissed off right hook or a flood of tears, but rather a thoughtful little look as she blinked back tears.

"Um, no, not that I recall." She was strong, she was. And he was damn proud. She licked her lips. "You?"

"No."

He saw her chest heave and her biting her lip with something in his eyes that spoke of hopes and dreams. His own chest beat a little optimistic rhythm and he really smiled this time.

"I'm going to be late," she said, her eyes never leaving his even as she retrieved her bookbag from where she'd tossed it in her rage on the floor.

He leaned on the wall and cocked his head. "Go."

* * *

I had dreamed of this moment so many times over the past, never really expecting him to stay on when I woke to my alarm, but yearning for him all the same throughout the day. Now, as I stood before a man who had been believed to be dead until last night, I felt strangely empty. In my wildest dreams, I came to at Spinner's End after the battle was over and found myself enfolded in Ron's loving arms; or perhaps Harry found him during his two years in hiding and they both came back to me, smiling and just as boyish as they'd been before the war took everything and our innocence. In any case, I had never, in a million years, lucidly envisioned what I might feel if Ron truly came back. And it was damn confusing trying to sort out exactly what I was thinking and feeling.

On the one hand, I felt immensely thrilled that Ron was alive. For real. He was here, he was flesh and bones and older and, while I felt strangely anxious around him, I still could feel my heart pounding, _alive_, in my chest. _Ron's alive, really alive_. Excitement ran through my blood, boiling it to a warm, fluttery feeling in the pit of my gut. I wanted to cry, I wanted to laugh, I wanted to hug him and kiss him and I wanted him to hold me.

On the other hand … I didn't know what to think. Obviously, seven years had done a lot to change him. Oh, who was I kidding? We'd all changed a great deal, even Harry and I. But what frightened me the most was that the Ron I'd learned to know and love appeared to be … gone. Physically, he was practically the same – bar a powerful strength and steely muscles that seemed to have bulged out all on their own, yet I had to remind myself that it had been _seven_ years – but the buoyancy that had so been Ron … I shook my head, and my eyes landed back into his penetrating eyes. Oh, could I recognise him? Could I recognise the Ron I'd known beneath the layer of grave darkness that shrouded him?

It was then that I realised that I didn't know this man at all anymore. Something about him was too … poised. Ron didn't have poise, he acted impulsively, whether it was a calculated move or completely demented.

Backing up against the counter, I let him finish study me as I'd done him and waited.

He raised his eyes, and I felt restless under his stare. "This is really me, 'Mione," he said softly, and I found myself entranced by the deep sound that poured forth. "I was close to dying that night, Luv, but I survived."

I felt exhausted all of a sudden. Seven years … How could we have been so blind? All of us? "How?"

The hard planes of his face softened, and I was given a glimpse of the old Ron. The next moment, I blinked and it was gone. Yet he was still looking at me, that strange depth in his eyes, like emotions held in check. "I was taken to a convent where I convalesced. I still live there… I owe them my life."

All this still made no sense. Here he was, so calm and collected, while my own mind ran frantic. It was so unfair! "Why didn't you show up seven years ago, when you were healed? Why couldn't you explain this to me then?" I passed a shaking hand through my hair and immediately regretted it, for it came back oily and stringy. But I had no care for that save for the little part of me that shattered when it looked like he was reluctant to speak. "It would have saved us all some…" I broke off half-whisper and lowered my eyes to my lap. I noticed I was still wearing my nightdress, and crossed my arms, feeling my cheeks heat in embarrassment.

I shouldn't be like this. I shouldn't feel so wary of Ron. I'd slept with him more times than I could count and, though we hadn't had the time to become as intimate as we would have liked, we had certainly explored each other. Ron knew me inside and out. He knew what tickled me, he knew what made me shiver, and he knew what made my toes curl. But now, now there was definitely something strange about him that made me shiver, and I couldn't quite place my finger on it.

Ron was quiet for a moment. He was still wearing the dark cloak, hood and all, and it unnerved me the same as the change in his then-exuberant personality. "I was too weak to get out for a long time," he said slowly, appearing to weigh every word. "But," and here he reached up and lowered his hood, releasing the dark shroud of darkness that had made him seem so stern and mysterious, "I hope you can forgive me."

Despite my discomfort, I almost reached out to drown my fingers in his shaggy ginger locks to push off the long fringe that fell just over his brow, but caught myself in time. Feeling disoriented, I settled for studying my bare feet. That had almost been too rash. "Ron," I said softly, not trusting myself to gaze back up into his eyes, "seven years … that's awfully long. I don't know you anymore. Besides, I've changed…"

For a fleeting second, this moment seemed undeniably comical. Or rather, I wanted to find it funny. I wanted to find a similarity between this very moment and … a bad muggle soap opera, for example. I found I couldn't. There seemed to be so much more hidden beneath the surface, so much that Ron wasn't telling me. I found it oddly frustrating, that he wouldn't trust me enough to tell me. Did seven years apart really change your dynamics so much? I felt hollow, and we weren't even fighting.

Ron's eyes rove over me, almost as immediately returning to my eyes, an uneasiness creeping into his apologetic smile. "I've spent a lot of time fending for myself, Luv," he said gently. "If someone understands change, it would be me. I respect and admire the woman you've become, 'Mione. In time, perhaps, you'll understand. Just know that beneath this façade, I'm still the same Ron, whatever you may find out about me."

My eyes widened of their own volition. "I would never–"

"Just remember," Ron said, and I thought for a moment that he was pleading with me. But how could I ever forget? Of seven years, not a day had gone by without memories of him stopping me in my tracks, making me cry at night. How could he doubt that I'd ever forget? He took a deep breath and, without my ever planning it, without remembering how I got there in the first place1, I was in the circle of his arms and listening to his heartbeat as he buried his nose into my hair. This was Ron as I remembered him, gently squeezing me to his chest like he wouldn't ever let go. I was momentarily amazed at how big he'd become. Hard muscles pressed back into my body, firm yet yielding. "I just can't change who I've become anymore," he rasped next to my ear in a pained voice.

I pulled out a bit, and gazed up at him. I raised my hand, cupping his cheek, and let myself revel in the raspy whiskers on his otherwise soft skin. "Why are you telling me this? And now?"

Ron sighed, enclosing my hand, and held it tight as he lowered our hands. "Soon, Luv. Soon you'll understand." Then he looked thoughtful for a moment. I felt it, too, that surge of unexpected, though familiar, magic. "Someone's coming."

"I know."

He didn't comment, but Disapparated just as Harry Apparated into our flat. "Hermione?"

I didn't realise I'd been standing petrified in the loo, staring after where Ron had been mere seconds ago. His visit hadn't explained a whole lot that could be strung into any sort of sense, but there it was. The most obvious answer had been answered to me the second he'd revealed himself to me – bar that, I'd known almost without a doubt that Ron was alive when the symbol was conjured the night before. But more questions now pressed themselves into my mind.

Harry had gone spare one day when I walked into our flat and found our neighbour – a frail, flaky old witch with an odd taste for garlic and onions – chopping bats' livers in our kitchen after a bit of grocery shopping. The next day Harry was poring over his textbooks, several chapters ahead of his class, I assumed from the numerous bookmarks, and built several of the strongest Anti-Apparating wards. Harry and I were thus the only ones the wards recognised and authorised to Apparate without mishap. So then … how had Ron done it?

"Ah, there you are." Harry smiled a red-eyed, pale-skinned smile when he saw me in the loo, and yawned greatly. The smile dropped off his face when he _really_ saw me. "What's wrong? Have you seen a ghost?"

I blinked at him twice, then grinned, trying to appear more relaxed than I really felt. "Maybe I did. So what did you find?" Nice save. Anything else to worry over, and Harry would likely break out in hives.

Harry, not suspecting a thing – or rather more preoccupied with something else, I'd wager – scratched his head thoughtfully. "Not much, really, but we've our suspicions."

"'We'?"

"Oh, er, Gin and I." He stopped and scrunched up his nose, as though remembering something. "She started at Syn Wyngyn two years ago, give or take a few months."

I hadn't been in contact with the Weasleys in seven years. Mrs. Weasley said she understood my reasons when I decided to sever the ties I had with Ron's family, but I'd always wondered if maybe that had been the wrong course of action to take. I loved the Weasleys, though, and thought it was for the best. I hadn't wanted Ron's memories to keep haunting me whenever I saw them, passed by the mantle where numerous moving photographs stared back at me, or walked by his Cannons orange bedroom. Nevertheless, it did hurt to alienate myself from Ron's sister most … She'd been my best girlfriend. Hearing about her now made my stomach turn. What had I done?

"Right."

There was an awkward silence – or so I thought it was. Harry was eating a grilled cheese sandwhich and I just stood there still icky and still ghastly. Great, I must have looked a right sight to Ron. Harry was just too used to it, I guess.

He finished a bite and pointed a thumb toward the general direction of the living room. "So it faded?" he asked conversationally.

Small talk. Right. Now I knew I really needed a shower. "Yeah, and as well it did. The muggles would have talked."

"Right." He licked his fingers industriously. That didn't bode well. What was wrong?

"So what do you think? About it?" 'It' was a touchy subject to both of us. Or rather, it still was to me until just after eleven o'clock this morning. 'It' was the Triquetra spell. We never talked about it even after Harry came back; all of its meanings of faith, hope, and strength had gone with Ron, it seemed, for Harry had only found pieces of them in me, and I in him.

Harry was silent for a while, and when he did speak again it was in a quiet, husky tone. "Did you see Ron die?"

"Er, no, I was unconscious when he … went down," I replied clumsily. "Why? Did you find anything to suggest –"

"No, I just did a lot of thinking at Syn Wyngyn … You know, I never went back to see that he was … properly … dead." I could tell the subject was difficult for Harry to adress. He kept fidgeting and looking anywhere but at me. "I just assumed that he was because I saw him get shot with a spell. But now I don't remember ever seeing a green light, or maybe I was just too busy to see –"

I smiled wryly and took his hands in mine. "—Or maybe you shouldn't rehash old mistakes." His eyes found mine, so imploring and fragile. "Or maybe you didn't see a green light," I added softly.

It cost a lot to see Harry suffer so hard for things he had no control over – not back then, not now, not ever. But I supposed he had to be concerned; where would we be now if not for Harry's intrinsic compassion?

"Maybe we should just let this –" I started carefully edging closer.

Harry shook his head, eyes wide, reminding me of the frightened little eleven year old boy on the Hogwarts Express who had no clue who he was and what he would one day accomplish. _Just Harry_. Hagrid had one day told me how Harry was when he learned he was a wizard. I reckoned that's what he looked like. Vulnerable. "I'm not letting this go, Hermione. I have to know."

And I understood. I understood the pain, having felt it so many times myself. That night – when Ron … disappeared – haunted me for years, hurting me more and more every time I looked back on time. It felt so unfair that he should have been taken when we had been through so much together, had survived all of us thus far, had … had promised … I understood Harry's frank determination to find the truth, no matter what. I would have done the same.

And yet … I knew. I knew the answer – or at the very least the most important one to Harry at the moment – to the puzzle. I knew Ron was the one who cast the Triquetra spell last night. It was obvious anyway – we three alone knew the spell – but Harry wanted to know for sure … and I knew. I could tell Harry that Ron had come back to me inside this very flat only minutes ago, that he'd spoken to me. I had seen him with my own two eyes. I'd recognise him anywhere, anyhow. I didn't know how he cast the spell alone, but I could ask. I could tell him all that, and Harry wouldn't have to go through a surely maddening search for the truth.

I didn't.

He hadn't specifically asked me, but an unspoken plea had shone in Ron's eyes before he vanished that morning: I couldn't tell anyone. Though I didn't understand why I did it, I knew I'd die to keep his secret.

* * *

Things at the office were slow over the next day. Having just wrapped up an important insurance case for a potion leak that had caused a lot of grief to the Ministry and the British muggle government, I had been given a bit of a downtime. To keep myself occupied, therefore, I'd been keeping tabs on some of my older cases and writing invoices to bullheaded clients who were apparently reluctant to part with their gold. I was in the middle of writing one to a Charms research facility when a voice made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle in surprise.

"You didn't tell him."

I repressed the urge to screech madly as Ron shimmered in from thin air. I guess I really had been immersed in my work if he'd been standing there being invisible and I hadn't felt it.

"Good Godric, Ron, would you terribly mind _knocking_? It's what normal people do around here!" I shoved a stubborn piece of hair that had fallen in my eyes behind my ear, letting my heartbeat slow. It was annoying how he did it; the git probably enjoying scaring the shite out of me.

Looking at him properly, though, I doubted he found it amusing or fun. Ron's lips were drawn in a grim line. His eyes darted to the door the front desk witch had left slightly ajar. I shouldn't have been able to tell it was Ron; he was once again wearing a dark cloak, hood drawn up to conceal his face. I suddenly realised why I found him so startlingly different: Ron looked downright dangerous to me.

"I wouldn't exactly consider myself normal, but that's not the reason I'm here," he said with a wry chuckle to himself.

"What are you doing here, Ron?" I asked with a sigh as I fell back down onto my chair, folding my hands nervously on top of my desk. Ron made me feel all kinds of unfamiliar feelings … Tense, guarded, confused …

He seemed to consider me a moment, then pursed his lips. "Are you somehow trying to protect me?"

Confused, my head shot up and I met his eyes. Cobalt. They were narrowed in frank suspicion. They perplexed me, had me flustered as I shook my head, baffled. "What are you talking about?"

Ron sighed and ran a hand through his hair, the hood falling back to reveal brilliant red locks. He stood back, leaning on a bookshelf, eyeing my every move like a calculating hawk. "You didn't tell Harry," he clarified. "Why?"

I gaped for a moment, at a loss. My next words were stuttered as I struggled for a hold on my nerves. "I – I thought that's what you wanted?" Bloody hell, he had me scattered like a twitchy pixie.

His imposing stance eased, and he smiled a bit before turning serious again. "Good. I don't want you meddling."

I thought I felt him preparing to vanish – again. "I don't understand," I blurted out before the magical pull got too great and it was too late – again.

The air cleared of magic at once and I breathed out, relieved. Nothing made sense with this new Ron and I needed answers. He just stared at me, a peculiar expression on his face, like he'd just sensed something. Standing still, he looked expectant. Now was my chance to find out once and for all.

"I don't understand why you're hiding," I started. Once initiated, it seemed my blabbering wouldn't stop. But here he was, willing to answer every one of my questions. Excitement bubbled in me at the prospect. "I don't understand how you Apparated to my – Harry and I's flat. You should have splinched yourself. I don't understand how you could cast the Triquetra spell without Harry and me." I was going to add more to my interrogation, but quieted at his raised palm.

Ron looked at me almost apologetically and rubbed the nape of his neck as he pondered how best to answer my queries. "Excellent questions, Miss Granger." His soft teasing leer wasn't lost on me when his humouring gaze swept over my office – law books, case folders, court papers stacked in neat piles over the floor in a small corner of the room … He was congratulating me without words on my becoming a successful lawyer, and my heart fluttered happily as he did so in his very own way. Then his face fell. "Unfortunately, they all lead to the same answer … and I can't give it to you."

I gave a roll of my eyes and made an irritated noise, throwing up my hands in the air. My patience was starting to wear thin. "Right, so then why come back after all these years, throw us a bone with the Triquetra and give me hints that 'soon I'd understand'?" I asked shortly, nostrils flaring and voice raising a notch by the second. "Tell me, Ron, isn't that some mad crazy way to tell me a message? Believe me, I love cryptic messages, and I'd love to decipher yours, but you're making no sense!"

"'Mione–"

"Miss Granger?" came the receptionist's shrill voice, muffled through the door I hadn't realised had been closed. Ron was no longer looking at me in that pained, pleading expression. His face had changed. He looked frantic, as though, should the door open, he'd bolt at the first opportunity. "Is everything all right in there? I thought I heard voices."

Breathing heavily, I shot my darkest glare at Ron. "Yes, Clara, everything's all right. Another unhappy customer, I'm afraid."

"All right," the woman replied suspiciously, "but I do have a man here who would like to speak to an available sollicitor and I thought – I mean, if you'd—"

"Er, all right, let him in."

Perplexed, I raised a curious brow, but said nothing more as I stared at Ron who was slowly advancing toward me. He dropped his voice to a low whisper, his breath on my face. "For what it's worth, 'Mione, I'm not running away from you – nor from Harry or anyone else. I wouldn't be here if I was. But I have to hide, to survive." He took a deep breath and continued hurriedly, his voice barely above a whisper now. "Promise me you won't go looking for me. I couldn't bear to lose you … Magic knows no bounds to some. Unleashed, it is deadly."

I shook my head as if to clear away old cobwebs, trying to make sense of Ron's words. No, decidedly, he was one undecipherable message after another. "What's that mean?"

But a loud 'pop' indicated that he had Disapparated.

At that moment, a short balding man entered my office.

* * *

He was flanked by Clara, who gestured him to a plush chair at my desk then gave me a short sheepish smile. I eyed her sharply, pursing my lips, as she exited without a word. Then, as the door clicked shut, I turned to the stranger with a smile I wanted pleasant. I wasn't really angry at Clara for interrupting Ron's nonsense. In fact, I supposed should feel thankful she'd disturbed us, for I would surely have gone insane with any more of his parables. No, rather, I was annoyed that I hadn't made any progress in understanding Ron's gibberish.

"Good morning, Mr … Mr…?"

The man was old, in his forties perhaps, rather on the portly side, and I detected a whiff of something so strong I coughed. "Mr Clarke," he replied warily, eyeing the certificates and trinkets on the wall as if they would attack him.

I sat back down, folding my hands neatly and resting my chin on them. I liked to study my clients while I interviewed them; it set some of them on edge whether they were telling the truth or not. Those were the easier ones to break. If they _didn't_ tell the truth, they were bound to slip up somehow. As for the tougher ones – usually they'd had a brush or two more with the justice system than the former kind – well, it took a bit more work, and they were no less enjoyable to pick apart.

"What can I do for you, Mr Clarke?"

He jumped a bit, but recovered fairly quickly. Casting a quick look at the door, much like Ron had during his visit earlier, he leaned over my desk and whispered, "I didn't do it."

That hit me straight in the chest. I should have laughed my head off – whoever was ever guilty when they had a lawyer? – but at the desperate tone in his voice, I thought better of it. This man was certainly not acting, and if he was … well.

"What are we talking about, here?" I asked, opening a drawer and feeling around for a notepad and my trusted tape recorder. Clarke gave a small smile of gratitude.

"Two men – my assistants … I am a magical historian. I cover everything from the humble druidic and shamanic beginnings of modern magic leading to the various mythical and authentic branches of magic of the twenty-first century. Someone killed them – I didn't do it," he said very quickly. His hands were trembling, his jaws working frantically as he worked to keep himself calm. "I didn't do it," he repeated quietly.

"Mr Clarke," I called softly. He looked up, startled, as though he had forgotten he was sitting in my office about to tell me what he was or wasn't guilty of. I offered a small, sympathetic smile. "Do you mind if I–" In the meantime, I'd finally closed my fingers around the small tape recorder I'd been looking for, and produced it in front of his wide eyes.

"What is that?" He was looking at my small portable recorder, a suspicious expression written all over his face.

I was used to this reaction. I did have to talk to muggles on a fair few occasions. In those cases, whipping out a Quotes Quill would have simply garnered too much attention and I'd have been in shite with the Ministry Obliviators as well … so I used a small tape recorder, which muggle lawyers used all the time. I must admit, though, the little device had grown on me. Unfortunately, not all wizards trusted this muggle contraption. I prepared myself for the standard explanation:

"This is a tape recorder, Mr Clarke. Unfortunately, I do not have a Quick Quotes Quill at this time, so this will have to do for the moment. It will record your voice so I may use what you say in court to defend your case should I decide to defend it. In a way, this is better than a Quick Quotes Quill, as the judge and jury will be able to hear your own voice as if you were speaking directly to them. And your voice, sir, holds more power than what I could write down in your defence." I sat back, letting him decide for himself.

He was studying the thing, most likely deciding whether or not it was harmful, and when what I had said sank in and he accepted it would help him, he lifted trusting eyes to mine. "All right," he said.

I nodded, giving a small smile, and pushed the record button. "My name is Hermione Jane Granger, sollicitor for the firm Themis & Dike. It is ten fifteen on the second of September 2009. Please state your name, sir," I kindly invited Mr Clarke, carefully placing the recorder between us on the table.

He leaned in close to the recorder. "I – uh … My name is Bert Hector Clarke." He drew back as if it made no sense to talk to a small metal box.

"Where do you work, sir?" I asked.

Still unnerved, Mr Clarke stared blankly at me for a moment, then recovered fairly. "Oh, er, I own the Clarke Research Facility in Bristol. Muggles come in once in a while, mostly I research medieaval history. Mind you, though, it's a complete waste of my talents … "

Raising a sceptical eyebrow, I proceeded coolly. "Do you have muggle history schooling?"

"Oh, yes, I went to the Wizarding Institute for Muggle Professions. Great, uh, campus."

Nodding, I noted that, then looked back up, resting my chin on my joined hands. "So tell me what happened. Take your time."

For a moment I thought he'd surely be out the door, but the next instant he sighed. Shoulders slumping, he plunged into his explanation. "All right, but I'm warning you, it sounds far-fetched, even to me." He glared at me, attempting to detect a flicker of hesitancy in my demeanor. "I have the money to pay you, plenty, but you have to believe me. Please. I'm not crazy."

A bit unsettled by Mr Clarke's pleading, I gaped a bit. Never in my two years and a half of practice had I encountered someone so desperate to be heard and trusted. I found myself inexplicably drawn to this man who so obviously needed someone to understand him. To believe him. putting my hand on his, I felt how cold and clammy he was. I managed a weak smile in return to his imploring expression. "I'll do my best, Mr Clarke."

Clarke stared a bit longer, looking frail as he swallowed with difficulty, nodding imperceptibly. Finally he drew back. "There is a … a man," he started awkwardly. "Came to my shop one night, after hours. I remember thinking he was a robber – his face was all in shadows, hidden, just wouldn't move. Scared me right off. So I though maybe a bit of magic…" He trailed off, eyeing the recorder nervously as if it would judge him itself. "I know it's illegal to use magic against muggle, but I–" He coughed "Well he was a wizard anyway, or something. No, maybe not." At my pointed look he continued, flustered, and fiddling with the trimming of his sleeve. "Right. I thought to frighten the bloke a bit, but he … he absorbed it. Calmly. Like he did this everyday. Then he spouted some nonsense about evil Society legends. To be honest, I thought he belonged at the loony ward at St. Mungo's." He paused, then chuckled brokenly to himself. "The Society, I ask you. Do you know the legends, ma'am?"

"No, sir," I replied curtly. "As fascinating as I'm sure the stories are, I'm here for yours, Mr Clarke."

He gaped silently like a fish caught in a fisherman's net, then closed him mouth promptly and groped for the rest of his story. "Yes. So – naturally I didn't believe a word he was saying when he told me I was in danger."

"And were you?" I asked, tilting my head.

"Well, no! Or rather, I thought I was … from him, if you know what I mean."

I snorted, smirking. "Okay, so who was he?"

Clarke slumped. I watched his expression shift from amused to fairly grumpy. "I don't know." He smacked the table with his fist, and shook his head. "I don't know. I asked him his name, you know, to alert St. Mungo's just in case he'd come loose, but they didn't know him and I certainly never met him." As an afterthought he added, somewhat derisively, "He calls himself _Honos_."

"Honos?" I'd heard that name before. Or read it. Drumming my fingers on the polished wood, I thought about the library, the aisle, the book title. "Honos…" Roman mythology, to be sure. The page of a book appeared in my mind's eye, and I concentrated on the words, the meaning behind the name. Clarke seemed unperturbed as he kept a string of recollections about St. Mungo's and his familial links there. Poor man, he was so nervous. Suddenly, I had it. "_Yes!_Honos is the Roman god of chivalry, honour and military justice! Sometimes called Virtus, he is depicted in art as a young warrior bearing a lance and the 'horn of plenty' – a cornucopia," I recited as though the textbook was right in my hands. Of course! How could I have not remembered?

Clarke, who had been cut mid-sentence explaining his family ties to one of the elderly Healers at the Deirdre Fianna ward at St. Mungo's, blinked up at me. "Er, if you say so…" He was pensive a moment. "It fits him, though. He's the one who protected me when…" He trailed off, his voice faltering when he realised what he was about to say. Next moment, he hid his face in his hands.

I bit my lip, knowing full well that what I was about to ask would come off as insensitive, especially considering his present state. I had to know everything, every last detail, after all. It was my job. I decided for a mollifying approach, hating myself already. "If you don't mind my asking, sir," I started softly, "how did he protect you?"

He didn't look, but I knew he had heard me from the way he stiffened his back. I stood up brusquely and headed for the door, opening it a crack. "Clara, a cup of tea, please," I called out softly. The slender brunette bustled out into the lounge. I turned back to Clarke. "I am sorry, Mr Clarke–"

"– Bert," he muttered hoarsely through his hands.

I breathed out, realising then that I'd been holding my breath, thinking I'd ruined everything with my potential client. "Bert. I am sorry. I have to know the facts."

He muttered something I didn't quite catch in reply.

"Pardon? I didn't hear."

Bert lifted his head from his hands and looked me in the eye, tormented. Clara came in at that moment, a bit flushed, levitating a cup of tea in front of her. She was shaking so badly that half the burning liquid sloshed over the side when it plopped unceremoniously in front of Mr Clarke, some of it landing on his white pharmacian's vest. He leapt up, hissing and rubbing the material where it had scalded his skin. "I'm so sorry, sir," she squeaked, and attempted a Scourgify that lifted only a tiny stain but left the rest. Clarke glared, his eyes glistening oddly.

"Leave it, Clara. Get back to work, I'll take care of this." The poor thing shuffled out, apologising all the way. I lifted the stains right off, all the while aware of his eyes boring into my skull. "Clara's new, she's usually not such a hazzard," I said with a false hint of a laugh.

"Last night," Clarke said shortly, "I was in my back office, cross-referencing an old legend – to try to see if it were in fact real, you know – when Leland and Danny – my assistants – were attacked. I heard their screams from the storeroom but I came too late. The fire had already killed them … I should have died." He looked away and fell silent.

For a long while I was silent as well. I was vaguely aware of the sort of 'shh' sound of the recorder as it taped everything. Bert's emotion. His apparent guilt. Being alive. Merlin, I knew. Finally I shook my head as though it were full of cobwebs, and asked: "Have you talked to the Aurors?"

He snorted in his cup. "No. The bastard or bastards probably used my wand. I'd left it in my cloak pocket in the staff wardrobe down in the staff lounge." At my puzzled look he said vehemently, "I am a Magical Historican, not a Charms Master!" He hung his head, and it was a sad sight. "No, they'd probably peg it on me, because I survived. But it wasn't! It wasn't me!"

I started twirling my quill, thinking about the next step to take. The logical course would be to gather evidence to prove his innocence. So then, if we found his wand had been used, Clarke would likely be found guilty on that sole proof. The Ministry had changed; there were definite improvements, no doubt of it, but the government's way to dismiss cases quickly based on lack of sufficient evidence had not quite fallen away. I bit my lip. Clarke had said this Honos had saved him that night… Why? How?

"You don't believe me." The tone in which Clarke had spoken was accusatory. He turned away, disgusted. "I knew it. I shouldn't have come. I wasted my time here."

He was halfway up and getting ready to leave before I took a deep breath and blurted out, "How did he save you?"

He looked back, an indescribable expression etched onto his face. It was as if his eyes dared me to laugh. Anticipation hung heavy in the air. I was practically hanging onto his next words. He spoke carefully, with the air of someone measuring every word so as not to expose himself as deranged. "The fire exploded and suddenly the entire room was in flames. They never touched me. I was in the middle of the inferno yet I had _nothing_. Not a burn, not a boil. The floor where I was standing is still intact, and I remember seeing him standing close to me, in shadows once again. And then, I was Apparated to the Department of International Magical Cooperation … and found you to plead my case to." He sat down heavily and stared as I stared. Then he cried out, "It's completely insane!"

I sat back, overwhelmed with this new information, and blinked repeatedly. Full-body Fire Shield? Unrestricted Apparation? Granted, the Ministry's Anti-Apparation charms weren't quite up to par with Hogwarts's, but still … This was … too much.

I was silent a long time, digesting everything Mr Clarke had said since the beginning of our impromptu session. I could feel his eyes on me, probably full of hope that I'd take his case into court. It was only when I heard a catch in the room, like a cat being hit in the stomach with a tennis ball, that I realised the tape recorder was still running. Well, not anymore. Clarke's eyes were on the foreign object, cringing as if he thought it would explode in his face. I reached out and turned it off. Silence hung in the air.

That was when what looked like a whole cohort of Aurors slammed their way into my office. I stood up, smirking serenely. "Gentlemen! May I present to you…" – my hand swept dramatically over to a dead frightened Clarke – "My client."

1 Borrowed, of course, from the genius that is JK Rowling.


	3. Priori Misery

_Author's Note:_ As I've said before, I've changed Mr Fairbanks's name to Bert Clarke. It's going to take some getting used to - from me, especially - but I think this name change is for the best. Nothing overly important, but Donald Fairbanks bugged the heck out of me.

* * *

CHAPTER TWO :: PRIORI MISERY

"Gentlemen! May I present to you … my client."

There was one of those long stretching silences, during which I was sure someone could tickle them all and they'd crumble to pieces. Mr Clarke and the Aurors and – did I recognise a Hit Wizard? The silence didn't last.

One of them – a Senior Auror by the looks of it – snorted. "Well I'll be damned…" He had a deep gravelly voice and a long jagged scar that ran from cheek to lip through way of the nose that would have made Moody proud. He looked disgusted with Clarke. "Goddamn chit's already come crying to mummy." I had a feeling the Auror was more resentful of the fact that their prime suspect had already come begging for justice, otherwise he'd be in _their_ hands and wouldn't _that_ make him happy. I didn't even want to know the sort of questioning tactics they were allowed to use. From a few accounts of Harry's days on the force, I knew they weren't always exactly … ethical. Let's just say, "let's sit down and talk" wasn't their favourite way of dealing with those who wouldn't talk. They certainly liked "let's crack your shell around you", and they definitely _loved_ "let's make your life suck like hell for a while." Oh, no fists about it. All perfectly painless … at least physically. They bent people 'til they gave, like plastic rulers that bent and bent and before you knew it it had snapped in half in your face.

As much as I didn't want to believe half of Clarke's cock-and-bull story, the man seemed genuinely scared. Of many things. Even of his own story. In my experience, I'd come to have an instinct for liars… It wasn't foolproof, but nothing really was anyway. It was all in the eyes. Wide, fleeting eyes? Liar. Wide, staring straight into your eyes emphatically? Well, I now knew Mr Clarke needed my help. And I'd do everything in my power to do just that.

Smiling cooly, I leaned my hip back onto my desk. "Anything mummy can help you with? You see, the chit and I have a lot to discuss."

The Auror turned his narrowed eyes on me and advanced so he was mere, _dangerous_ inches away from my nose. Ah, yes, intimidation. And I'm not proud to say it didn't work. It did. The man had a mean glare that made me want to curl up under an invisibility cloak and hope to all saints he didn't have a Moody eye. After a moment he snorted. "All right, girls, let's go." He and his little flock – all beefy ten of them – walked out. I released a breath I hadn't known I'd been holding.

"Mr Clarke … I shall require your wand."

* * *

Harry stretched out on the couch. He could tell it was second-hand from the way it had lost its firmness in places, but he'd never tell Ginny that. She had her pride and it was intact, thank you very much. For her defense, though, she'd covered what he supposed was a stained and probably very threadbare original couch fabric with a cheery striped leafy-green and off-white slipcover. Yes, she'd done quite something with her new flat, and Harry found himself really enjoying his stay in her colourful living room.

"Okay," Ginny called as she came back in carrying a plate of snacks – sliced cucumbers, fanned out cheese sticks, cute baby carrots. "So you're saying the spell doesn't leave a trace. How are we going to figure out when it was cast and who cast it?"

"We don't," Harry replied, stretching his hand into the plate and removing a carrot. He frowned and appeared to study it, and Ginny was momentarily horrified that she might have slipped in a spoiled one. "When did you turn into a health maniac?"

She glared at him, but didn't reply. Instead she sat down on the loveseat opposite him and quickly brushed a wild lock of hair behind her ear. It didn't stay. "How can we be so sure it was Ron, then?" she asked again.

"We're not."

Ginny crossed her arms at his tone and sat back moodily, staring just past him. "So … what? We just go on blind faith?" When silence stretched on she sighed. "Harry, I know I said–"

"Nevermind what you said," he finally muttered. "Look, it's just like I told you yesterday, no one knows the spell. We never noted it anywhere, and Hermione and I sure as hell didn't cast it since … well, anyway." Then he frowned. "Besides, we can't. That spell needs three casters to perform it. That's why it's called the Triquetra."

Ginny blinked. "Then it can't have been…"

Harry exploded of a sudden. "Yes it was! Godric's fuck, it was!" When he saw her recoil away from him, he caught his breath and softened his tone, dropping his head. "It was. I don't know how, but it_was_."

She nodded silently, frowning. "Okay. Okay." She stared down at her hands and waited. Waited for the next step. There was one thing she'd wanted to do since Harry's revelation yesterday, but she simply hadn't been able to make herself do it. It was too hard, too painful to go back.

As though reading her mind, Harry lifted his head from his hands where he'd rested it. When he next spoke, his voice cracked on every word and she bit her lip. "We need to go back to Spinner's End."

* * *

The battlefield was deserted when they Apparated in just at the edge of the ward that had been placed after the war. It was only polite to honour the dead in a nonmagical way. They had trod this earth, battling magic with magic, and now rested elsewhere. Magic was not needed to pay respect. Only peace.

The sun was at its zenith, bathing the place with a falsely cheery glow, and though this was one of the warmest days they'd had this year, the wind prickled their skin with gooseflesh. This was where it had all ended. With the years, greenery had regrown in force, and it seemed wildflowers and bright red poppies had germinated where the dead had fallen. The sight was beautiful, mesmerising, but seemed to have been painted so to erase the stains of yesterday.

Swallowing, Harry released Ginny's hand that he had no recollection taking hold of, but not before quickly squeezing it. Then he walked off.

Ginny watched him. It was all she could do at the moment, really, because she felt numb and oddly disconnected. She'd promised herself never to come back, never to dwell on the past, and she'd done fantastically until Harry came along telling her they'd all buried Ron before he really was dead.

She hadn't told her parents. Merlin, they'd think she'd gone mad, completely round the bend. It would be her fault, too. Harry Potter had endured enough, it was normal he'd break one day, but her? "She believed him, sir, oh yes, she pushed him to the limit along with her."

Should she trust Harry? After all, he was her mentor, she had to trust his decisions. And he was damned good. He took care never to thrust her into an impossible situation. He made sure she understood the theory. He practised with her well into the night. She trusted his judgment. But then again, it – insanity, denial – was bound to catch up to him one day, didn't it?

Ginny closed her fist onto the lingering warmth Harry had left behind, then lifted her eyes to see him walk purposefully to the spot where Ron had fought for the last time. She closed her eyes. Yes, Ron had been just a few meters away from Harry, fighting three Death Eaters at once. Vague memories, but there it was. She'd been fighting one, then turned back around and his Death Eaters were down and he was gone. But the fire in his eyes … She shivered. She'd always remember the fire. He'd fought to the end, to be sure.

She opened her eyes again to find a glint of wild ebony amongst the high weeds and wildflowers, then set off after him.

"What are you doing?"

There was an empty, hollow look in his eyes when she knelt next to him. His wand was in his hands and he was slowly circling round and round, always a little wider, apparently immune to the heat. She followed a trickle of sweat down his brow. "I'm trying to find lingering traces of magic." He was silent a long while afterwards and Ginny respected his need for all his sense to be alert if he caught a glimpse of something. Tracing didn't require any magic to be performed, but rather the reverse: the essence of magic was detected and absorbed by the wand. Absently she plucked weeds out and picked them apart, slowly. Finally Harry sighed, brushed back an unruly wet patch of hair from his brow and sat back next to Ginny. Her capris clung uncomfortably to her skin. "There are definitely traces of battle spells, that's a given." She nodded. "There's something weird in there, too, but I can't place it."

"Dark magic?" Ginny inquired, her eyes trained to the strands of weed in her hands.

"I dunno. It doesn't seem that threatening."

She glanced at him. "D'you think maybe he was Vanished? Maybe he came back somehow?"

Harry grimaced thoughtfully and glanced back at the spot he'd scoured. "You can't Vanish someone, only objects." Right, she'd forgotten about that. "And I can't reason why a Death Eater would bring an Invisibility Cloak on a battlefield. I mean, they wanted to fight us, not make us disappear. And besides," he added quietly, "they're extremely rare and expensive." He shook his head. "No, it's nothing like that."

"Disapparation?" she ventured again.

Harry's eyes snapped back to her, wide. "No way, Ron wouldn't leave in the middle of battle."

Ginny bit her lip, shrugged. "Ron wasn't always exactly bra–"

"_No_." A long silence, marred with tension and reproach, ensued. He whispered again, harshly, "How can you _say_ something like that? He's your–"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Harry, the man's not a saint! I grew up with Ron, remember? When he's scared, Ron runs. _It's what he does!_"

The glare he sent her could have chilled her and burnt her at once. "Apparently, you don't know your brother," he said quietly, but it still felt like a hard blow in the chest. She looked down, seething silently. "And apparently, you don't give a shit that your brother fought like a hero. No, you probably thought he was saving his _skin_." By now he, too, was seething, eyes flashing, mouth distorted into an angry snarl. He clamped down hard on her shoulders when she tried to stand up. "Oh, he believed in that pureblood bullshit, did he? He just didn't join them because he was scared, right? He thought it'd be much more fun to play with the good guys. Tell me," his voice was raising, "tell me _why the hell_ he pretended to hurt every single time Hermione was sick or hurt? Tell me why he didn't rape her like an animal if he didn't give a flying _fuck _about her? She's a mudblood, isn't she? It was all just a game, wasn't it? Tell me," he spat, "are you a pureblood bitch just like him?"

Ginny whimpered under the pressure his fingers exerted into her skin. At his last yelled insult, however, she growled low and pushed against him with all her might. "Fuck you, Harry Potter!" she choked. "You have no right accusing me after all I've … I've…" She broke off, wincing and nursing her shoulders.

Harry stared, gaping, as if he didn't quite believe what had just happened … what he'd just said to her … all of it. Then his eyes narrowed again and he stood towering over her. "And you have_no _right accusing Ron of anything."

He was halfway across the field when he froze. Ginny's voice reached him clearly, even as she sniffed, even as she choked on her words. "What, were you having an _affair_ with Ron? Is that why you're marrying Hermione? Because she reminds you of good times with Ron in some twisted way?" And with every word she spat passionately, something contracted in Harry. Something cold. Something that hurt like hell.

When he twisted around, he didn't see her. He didn't remember her voice, didn't see her flushed face, or her wild hair, or her eyes glittering with angry tears … only remembered the words and how_wrong_ they were. She was wrong! "Shut up, shut _up!_"

He didn't feel his wand hand raise, didn't know what spell catapulted from the long flexible wood, only felt his heart ache with the sting of her words.

Then he saw her.

And she glowed beyond the luminescent Priori.

* * *

"Mr Clarke?" I asked when he looked at me blankly.

Finally he blurted out, pale as a ghost, "I don't have it … my wand."

Not to be undone, I smiled amiably. "You said earlier that you'd left it in your cloak pocket. Is it still there?"

He nodded wordlessly.

"It wasn't touched by the flames, was it? We could still perform some spell tracing on it, see what was cast with it, in any case…"

"No … no, it wasn't burnt. Only the … lab."

I tried to appear cheerful, though his behaviour really concerned me. He'd been somewhat lost and confused when he first came into my office. Then he'd calmed down considerably as he told me his tale. Now he looked ready to faint. Had his experience and predicament finally caught up to him? i was afraid he was losing it proper now. "Well, then, shall we go?" I grabbed a locked briefcase from my coat-hanger armoire, then walked toward the door. When I didn't hear him follow along, I turned back.

The man had blanched some more. Uh oh.

"Is something wrong?" Godric's beard, but I didn't know first aid!

Clarke looked down, and for a moment I was afraid he'd vomit right then and there, but thankfully he didn't and just started shuffling his foot sheepishly. If the situation hadn't been so dire I might have burst out laughing, but the man really concerned me. Okay, I thought, St. Mungo's it is. "Er," he began, "I might suggest that you go and I just … er … wait it out here, yes?"

"Oh, so_that's_ what he was on about! Going back to the scene of a crme you were witness to – in his case, two, plus the destruction of everything around _but_ him – was often just too much to ask. Certainly the cause for a hive breakout. Being all business-like, I'd forgotten about the human aspect of what I'd just requested of him. Gee, how cold.

"Sir," I began sympathetically.

Absently he retorted, "Bert."

Right. "Bert, I would require your presence as well to answer some questions. I know it's a lot to ask, but I need to place you at the scene of the crime and I need you there. Do you think you could do that for me? It would clear up an awful lot." Hopefully your name, I almost added, but then he'd believe I _didn't_ believe. Yes, suspects were very on the edge, I'd noticed. Only normal, if you considered the kind of stress they went thought, but then again you didn't want to ruffle them or there was hell to pay.

I could see he was hesitating. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water a couple of times, then seemed to take a most difficult decision – oh, trust me, it was. "All right. We're in, you do your thing, and then we're out, clear?"

"Crystal."

And so we were off to the Atrium upstairs to Disapparate and 'do my thing'.

* * *

"You were gone an awful long time."

The hooded figure glared and strode briskly from the Apparation perimeter it had just entered without another glance back.

The young woman jumped down from her perch in the dimmed alcove and caught up to him. "The Council started asking question. What happened?"

He stopped, sighed, and tore his hood from his head, revealing shocking red hair that fell just below his chin. His sharp chiseled face was drawn tightly in irritation. "I got held back, okay?" Then he added, disgusted, as an afterthought, "I don't report to you."

"You could … This was your first charge, for Godric's sake. They could suspend you over this, you know?"

"They won't," the man growled before walking away again.

She shook her head, keeping up with him with little difficulty, and narrowed her eyes at him. "You're supposed to go in, do your job, then get the hell out."

Smirking drily, the man snorted. "I did it, didn't I?"

She stopped. "You're _so_ full of yourself."

She was locked between bruising wall and steely chest within the blink of an eye. "Yeah? The man's safe _and_ in the hands of justice, how about that." It wasn't a question.

She opened her heart-shaped mouth in a soundless 'o'.

Releasing her somewhat, he groaned and brushed back his hair. "Look, Robin, it was either you or me … They chose me. I don't know why."

"I've been here longer." She jutted out her chin insolently, drawing a bitter smile from his lips.

"Yeah, and look where pride gets you," he drawled, cocking an eyebrow at her current predicament. Nowhere. Lifting his hand, he pressed it against her trachea for emphasis.

Hissing angrily, eyes watering, she shoved hard, panting when he released her. "I can take care of myself _just_ fine."

The man's cobalt eyes roamed over her petite frame. She musn't be more than twenty, he decided, judging by her flawless, pearly skin and small callous-less hands that even now rubbed vigorously at a long, feminine neck partially hidden by long, curled blonde locks. She could have been a dancer, he thought again, then mused that dancers certainly did not possess such power and strength of character. The girl was barely out of her teens, but certainly not in mind, and he whole-heartedly agreed with the Council to keep her under wraps as long as Miss Primadonna couldn't control her temper.

He leaned cooly against the long hallway's opposite wall, crossing arms and ankles in a relaxed demeanor. "I know. I'm sure they have something better for you."

She stared a little longer, then finally came off her high horses and exhaled, glancing up sheepishly. "So … what was his deal?"

"Clarke?" He contemplated, then shrugged. "Us."

* * *

The entire room where Clarke conducted his research on medieaval magic was … unrecogniseable. I'd never been into the facility but could tell that the fire had destroyed everything beyond recognition. Gingerly I stepped over the charred remains of an overthrown bookcase and its scattered contents. I could feel Clarke's presence behind me, breathing in little bracing gasps as we walked into the heart of the room. Lifting my gaze to the incinerated doorframe on the opposite wall, I saw the spot where Clarke had stood frozen as he started exiting his small office in the back, intact and pristine as opposed to the rest of the ravaged room. Somewhere to my right, four stumps stood from the ashes near a charred prop desk where blackened book pages and ashes lay, forever unreadable.

Standing in this mess made me feel like a sick intruder. Books, magical history, and people had perished and now rested in peace in this crematorium. I felt dirty and like a violator of men. That wasn't right.

What made it right was the reason we were here. Someone had to understand how and why this had happened. I was a reluctant volunteer, but there it was. I was here to do the dirty job.

I stole a wide circular glance around, then stared up and down at the ceiling and floor. Finally I gently set my briefcase down horizontally on a nearby table, and unlocked it. Reaching in, I produced a parchpad and set out taking notes. "This wasn't a mere muggle fire," I began for Clarke's benefit, then gestured to the space around. "See, there are no marks of an accelerator – gas or chemicals, usually – they would have ran where the felon left some. I can't see any marks of condensation, though – where the flames would have rejoined in bigger masses. This supports your story and I think it might have started suddenly and kept a constant degree and mass everywhere within the room and–"

I was interrupted by Clarke whose pained voice barely reached me. "Please, can we talk about something … else?"

I turned to him, concerned. His eyes were screwed shut and his face sweaty and pale. I coughed to cover my idiocy, then jotted down a few more quick notes. "All right. So you … opened the door there" – I pointed to the doorless frame where the floor remained untouched – "and the flames engulfed you, but didn't–"

"– Touch me," he finished hoarsely.

My gaze wandered back to the four stumps by the prop desks. "And…" I began hesitantly, for I thought I already knew the answer, "that would be where … Leland and Danny were standing when…?"

Opening his eyes a short second, Clarke nodded.

I stayed uncomfortably silent, surveying my surroundings once more, and took a deep, bracing breath. "Can you point me to your armoire? With your eyes closed, if you prefer…"

He lifted a stubby finger to the leftmost corner, just beyond the glassy floor-to-ceiling delimitations where a small group of bespectacled or mousy researchers had congregated to silently gape at the destruction zone. I carefully maneuvered back where we'd come in and gladly exited the zone, shooting a quick polite half-smile at the crowd. "Excuse me…" I reached the coathanger armoire and dug inside the three cloaks' pockets, finding three wands. Pinching the bridge of my nose – good Godric, a headache already? – I returned back into the disaster.

"Can you show me which one is yours?"

He didn't open his eyes for that one. "The shortest." I grinned a bit at his reluctance at being here. But it was necessary, and I was thankful he wasn't making it harder than it already was.

"Were these what your assistants were working on?" I asked, pointing to the open books on the prop desks in front of the foot stumps.

Clarke chanced an eye open, gulped, and nodded.

Directing my wand toward my open briefcase, I Summoned two large indestructable plastic bags. "Who was working on the left desk?" I asked again.

"Danny."

I placed the books Danny was working on inside one of the bags, then did the same with Leland's. "Thank you," I breathed. "Let's go in your office now."

Meekly, he opened his eyes and followed me inside the room that was just as ravaged as the other, though perhaps thrown into more stark contrast because of its smaller size.

"What books were you working with?" I asked, wanting to be out of there just as much as he did. I'd been able to hold the creepy factor from my brain at bay as much as possible, but it was starting to penetrate, and it was definitely unpleasant being in here.

"Only the one. There on the desk."

I Summoned another bag wordlessly and slipped the thick volume inside, opened to the page Clarke had been studying. I noticed with some surprise that the right page was still readable amid all the burn marks, but barely. Excitement flooded my chest, bubbling. Knowing exactly what he had been working on might accelerate my investigation. "What exactly were you working on?" I asked.

He stared blinking, astonished by my different behaviour – excitement, probably, that I'd found a clue – then seemed to remember the question of a sudden. "Why, I'm not quite sure myself. Leland called me on it that morning. The three of us were checking references in other texts when…" He interrupted himself abruptly, turning the same shade of grey he'd been before.

"I'll need your notes, too." I Summoned Leland's, Danny's, and Clarke's notes and carefully put them in their respective bags. "Where did you get that book? The big one." I nodded to Clarke's tome in my bag. "How long have you had it?" I asked again.

Clarke stared at the large book a moment, then 'o'ed silently. "I bought it from a muggle sale. The book had been Confunded to look like a mathematics textbook when read by muggles. I've probably had it…" he scratched his scruffy chin thoughtfully "perhaps a year, a year and a half. We have … _had_ so many books, it's hard to keep up with the flow on the best day…"

I nodded understandingly, and smiled inwardly. Why, that was all the fun of it, too! Shaking my head absently, I concentrated on the next matter on my list. It certainly wouldn't provide conclusive proof to anything, but I wanted to just … test a theory. It wouldn't hurt either.

"Would you mind if I studied that spot?"

He looked up and completely flushed of colour, stammering, "Y – yes, sure, I – umm – yes." And he promptly turned his back on it. I heard his harsh panting and imagined his eyes screwed tight against the memory, trying to erase it from his mind.

The spot – the intact spot where he'd been standing when all hell broke loose. There was bound to be some residual magic, considering the importance of the fire. A Full-Body Fire Shield was nigh impossible to produce, or so I'd thought until this morning. I knelt next to it, closing my eyes, listening, feeling, waiting. Stretching my own limits.

Then swallowed my sharp gasp.

* * *

Heart pounding savagely in his chest, he stared at her staring back, and for a long time he couldn't find it in him to breathe, so much it_hurt_.

Ginny's eyes engulfed him, made him weak with their teary misery, and he was actually surprised when he felt something hot and wet trickle down his cheek.

How had it come to this? To this bitter anger? All for Ron, or merely an avenue to let sentiments loose? Harry didn't know, but by Merlin it hurt like hell.

She finally lowered her wand, letting her arm fall limply at her side, and turned away, a haunted look in her eyes.

"Ginny I –"

"Please don't," she snapped hoarsely.

His mind reeled, wondering what to do. "I didn't mean –"

She twisted back around, eyes swollen and bloodshot. "I did."

And then she was gone.


	4. To Trust A Man

Author's Notes: This. Is. A. Huge. Chapter. No, seriously, it's nearly 14,000 words long. Which accounts for why it took so long to get written (plus school!). But rest assured, I had a lot of fun writing it. It is very dear to me, which also might be why it's so long. I'm introducing four new original (minor) characters and a myth. I'm very excited about the latter, as it's based on Norse and Celtic mythology. I'm nuts about anything Celtic in the first place, so it's only a given I'm nuts about this chapter. You'll know what I'm talking about soon enough. There's also the shortest scene I've written yet in this chapter. Of course, it's ambiguous :D

Oh, by the way, happy new year. A month or so later. The best for you and your loved ones.

Now that this chappie's finished and my creative juices need a rest (and a direction), I'm rewarding myself with the load of books I just got in the mail: vampires, highlanders, dark hunters, oh my! I have a feeling I'll enjoy :DDD What can I say, the best gift I can get is a good book. So, tourelou, and until next time! Keep your eyes peeled for the next update.

* * *

CHAPTER THREE: TO TRUST A MAN

Fierce.

An inhuman amount of magic, like thousands of tiny spears badgering away merrily all round my skull, had me lurching. Sight was becoming blurry, like a black void closing in on me. Air, sparse. I felt like I would never wake up if it kept on. I wanted to cry, but couldn't. I wanted to scream. I didn't care if I made myself hoarse in the process. But I couldn't, either. For one frantic moment, I knew I was dying.

I think it's clear I'm still alive. If not for an Auror coming in to collect evidence, I would probably still writhe and wish I was dead rather than suffering that onslaught from hell.

"Miss? Miss Granger!"

A cold, clammy hand touched my cheek. Jolting, I pried my eyes open.

I was still in the research lab. Someone had dragged me as far away from that hellish spot as possible, and leaned me against the lab's wall of bay windows. My clothes were now wrinkled and full of soot and coal.

"Wh – what happened?"

"Oh thank Merlin!" Clarke cried to my right, sounding relieved. "You gave me a fright back there. One minute you were fine, then the next you turned white and started shaking like a leaf. Blasts, I thought that was it. I kept calling but you wouldn't respond. So Auror Buchanan moved you here."

"I… thank you." What else did you say to someone who saved your life? A stranger, at that.

"I'm Auror Kyle Buchanan, from the Arson division," a deep, husky voice rumbled near my face. Only then did I focus on the man. Short black hair bound at his nape. Long chiseled face with high cheekbones. Golden-brown eyes stared back unblinkingly at me. The man exuded hard, untouchable masculinity. I wouldn't like to be in his line of fire on a bad day.

Wriggling, I scooted out of his reach and sat up, blinking. I could feel his piercing gaze, ever moving, following me like the lion considering his next meal.

"Aurors came in this morning after workers found the place wrecked," he announced matter-of-factly after an awkward moment. "What I can't figure out is what you're doing here, Miss Granger."

It was said with such contempt and casualty that I just knew Auror Buchanan was restraining himself out of sheer curiosity. In any other case – say, if I'd been awake and he'd found me snooping through the place – it would have been a totally different story. I'd be toast by now. About to be ruthlessly crunched to crumbs. As it was, he'd found me in a dead faint and certainly not snooping in his presence. But…

Merlin's pants, he probably thought I had something to do with the fire. He was probably just curious to know why Clarke had let in a murderer and why I'd fainted just before the killing blow! Just excitement, your Honour. Sheer bloodlust saved the poor man.

"It's not what you think," I blurted before thinking, then groaned inwardly. Congratulations, you've just completed making a sorry cliché out of yourself. "I mean, sorry, I'm Mr Clarke's attorney."

I was pretty sure thrusting out my hand would be ignored; I therefore refrained.

The dark Auror hadn't moved a muscle. If anything, I would have said his face might have become grimmer.

"I was here collecting evidence," I advanced carefully.

He arched a thick brow. "Obviously, that's an Auror's job. Why wasn't it picked up this morning?"

Good question. I suspected they just hadn't cared about a bunch of books, but that might have just been me. No, in fact, I was pretty sure that was it. And the fact that I'd had Clarke with me to say who had been working on what prior to the fire. "Perhaps they thought you'd prefer the honour?"

His lips stretched in a thin line, but that was the extent of his reply. 'Doubt it. Bastards,' it clearly said. He was certainly a wordly man. "Did you touch anything?"

"Nothing that couldn't be helped." When I was certain his eyes had just turned to dark whisky and threatened on full black, I backpedaled. "I might have stepped into some dust or other but no, no prints. Wand, that's it."

He nodded almost imperceptibly. "Good. Now be nice and let me do my job with Mr Clarke." His eyes glinted ferociously as he said this, sweeping the room with a calculating predatory eye. 'Mine.'

That couldn't have been a cheaper blow. I felt my face heat up and just couldn't help it: The Granger temper just… exploded. "Now look here, Kyle, I have permission from Mr Clarke to question him and find out all I can about what happened –"

"You said so yourself: You can question him." His eyes narrowed in challenge.

"Don't you dare question my methods!"

He huffed. "So now collecting evidence falls into the questioning category? Pardon if I've lost my field handbook, but that certainly was never in there."

Well, he was right, but I wouldn't give him the pleasure of admitting it. "I was questioning him here to perhaps trigger memories when I found the investigation had obviously not been fully carried out. I merely took it upon myself to collect what I would have needed anyway." Good save, I thought, then looked up.

A mocking, derisive smile stretched the Auror's face. It didn't quite reach his eyes. They were cold. "Obviously, Miss Granger, you haven't been in the practice very long, so I'll cut you some slack. But I'll ask you very nicely to hand over whatever you've pawed through, and I won't breathe a word." He didn't say what else he'd do if I didn't hand it over. I had a general idea.

Clarke, who'd been quiet until then, glancing between the two of us as we parried back and forth, seemed to come out of a stupor. "I let her take them."

"Thank you, Bert," I said, never leaving Buchanan's dangerous eyes, "but Auror Buchanan doesn't care."

"Bert, eh?" Something seemed to change in Buchanan's demeanor. He didn't exactly relax, but some of the tension seemed to leave him, replaced with… sensuality. Thick, dark lashes lowered over murky eyes, suggesting a come-hither look beneath them. I'd never met a man so dangerous and openly carnal at once. Frankly, I didn't care to meet another. This Kyle Buchanan filled my share of them for a long, possibly eternal, while.

It was clear he thought of me as men once thought of women: There, to be used, and useless. A prize.

Jerk.

I sent him my iciest glare yet, that only served to make him laugh.

Huh. So maybe I hadn't made myself clear. I would.

"Hermione Jane Granger. Hogwarts Prefect. Ten Outstandings, one Exceeds Expectations in O.W.L. levels. Harry Potter's best friend, tactician, and member of the New Order of the Phoenix during the Second War against Voldemort. Oxford graduate in Law. Passed Bar three years ago. Junior Associate at Trembles & Katchersky, dealing with wizard and muggle clients alike. Need I say more?"

"No thanks." He glared speculatively. "So it would seem you've enough sense to handle those items with care… Tell you what, how about we share?"

"Share?" The thought was appaling. Did he seriously expect me to willingly Duplicate ancient, priceless texts for his sharing pleasure? I heard Clarke's sharp, outraged hiss. Jesus, that just wasn't done!

Auror Buchanan tsk'ed irritably. "Is there a parrot in here?" He rubbed his face several times. "I'll work with you," he finally ground out. I thought I heard him add 'Merlin help me' under his breath. I certainly thought it.

* * *

You might wonder what had me fainting. I didn't forget, though I wanted to, very badly.

Magic, that's what had me going down headfirst. Oodles and oodles of magic, like I'd only felt once before: In my front yard, the night the Triquetra was struck to the ground. Residual magic, this time, but just as potent, if not more. It had nauseated and awakened me at once, almost as if somehow it was a fundamental part of magic that I'd always known but was too hidden to comprehend.

Someone who knew and honed that elemental magic had used it against or to protect Bert Clarke. Or both. Or perhaps there were two of them. Or maybe I was completely off the base.

I didn't know.

And that scared the living bejeezus out of me.

* * *

"What a pleasure." Surprise laced the words of the tall, lightly shrouded woman, but she recovered quickly. "What brings you here, Honos?"

The hooded man bristled visibly. He wouldn't correct her. But he wasn't taking care of Brotherhood business now, therefore the pseudonym should apply while he could be however 'himself' as he could be.

Looking around the darkened hallway, making sure none had followed him, the young man pushed past the pale woman, into the small cell.

The interior was spartan, lacking any homeliness that might have made the single room inviting. He supposed he shouldn't point fingers, as his wasn't in any better a condition. He sighed. "I've a dilemma."

The elfin face raised a well sculpted, intrigued brow. "Has your training not prepared you for anything that might come along?"

"Not exactly for this sort of thing, no," the man called Honos retorted quietly, sitting onto a hard-backed chair.

The woman said nothing, regarding him sceptically.

The young man drew his hands into a nervous knot, wringing them, and stared down balefully. "I might have made a mistake two nights ago."

She stood rigid, but her voice was just as mellifluous as ever. Soothing. That was why he'd come to her. "Your first mission?" she inquired.

"Yes."

She was silent a moment, mulling over that thought, then calmly folded her hands over her robes. "It's perfectly natural for one's nerves to get the best of them, especially as… you are a special case, Honos."

Didn't he know that…

"Regardless, your emotions might have unbalanced your mind. You will see into it?" Her gaze pierced into him, he just sensed it.

"Of course," he answered without looking up. Afraid to.

She inhaled. "Well then, what is the nature of your dilemma?"

Honos opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Nevermind. Nothing he could say would make the kind, though coldly detached, Council member understand his plight. Worse, answering to Brotherhood laws, she could legally have him removed from his duties for an indeterminate amount of time and, at the moment, it was simply impossible. He had to make sure nothing went wrong. He'd already failed once; he couldn't afford to lose anymore.

Honos finally rose, and answered truthfully. "I'll work it out on my own, thanks."

Without another word, he left.

Mistress Aine of the Council of Elders watched the young Guardian's retreating back with a sceptical eye.

* * *

"Where's Weasley?" Tom Hopkins's voice came from behind Harry in the Entrance Hall of Syn Wyngyn. Harry's talisman Bubble had just popped out when Tom had Apparated in just behind him. He was now looking over Harry's shoulder. "Weren't you supposed to be, er, investigating something today?"

"Yeah," Harry answered without feeling, "as part of her train –"

"POTTER!" That voice boomed throughout the Hall, reverberating off the walls. The din of conversation around them had interrupted. Harry's Director of Operations-slash-Dean of Academics was in a downright pissy mood. "IN MY OFFICE. NOW!"

Chaos in the Entrance Hall resumed as if nothing had disturbed them. Harry pocketed his wand in his jeans under the field robes he was wearing – which looked a lot like muggle jackets – and cleared his throat. "Right. I'd better go."

"Hey, wait up." Tom easily caught up with his bulky six-foot-and-some frame and long legs. "I'm heading that way myself. So. Why the long face?"

Harry chuckled wryly as he marched dully toward… whatever was onto him beyond his boss's door. "Trust me, I don't even get it. One minute we're fine and the next we're hexing one another like hell just broke loose… I have no idea what came over me."

Hopkins shrugged. "Oh well, I'm sure you'll get over it. From what I hear, Hermione can be quite the tomcat, but it's not like you haven't survived the Dark Lord. She can't possibly be that bad… What?"

Harry had halted, thoroughly rattled, then shook himself. "Er, nevermind. I wasn't – nevermind." They resumed walking.

"O-kay. So why haven't I seen Gin yet today?"

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "We… broke off after training." That much was true. "She headed home to study afterward." That, he wasn't one hundred percent sure about, but he'd wager she was home, at least.

"Damn. I envisioned a nice dinner today – her, me, and my cuisine –"

"– That she'd once again refuse," Harry jabbed, chuckling. "Admit it."

Hopkins made a laughing-glaring face, unable to keep a straight face. "What's wrong with my cooking?"

Harry snorted. "Nothing – if you like burnt food."

"Ouch." Hopkins punched him. "That's low."

Harry shrugged, smiled. "You asked for it, man." Then he sobered, eyeing the closed door before him. "All right, into the dragon's den. Woohoo."

Hopkins winked, and whooted along. "Break a leg, meister. I'm off to find my certainly-not-life partner."

Harry shook his head, sniggering after his friend's antics even as he knocked on the director's door. It opened by itself.

The office was littered with pile upon pile of documents, sheets, and folders arranging and reorganising themselves as memos came zipping into the large office to pluck themselves onto specific piles.

"Potter," the thinning man behind the massive oak desk acknowledged him without lifting his nose from reading a document or other. "Sit."

Harry obeyed. Only then did the director lift his gaze.

"It's come to my attention that you were absent from duty last night and all of today with Miss Weasley." He folded his hands on the desk, searching Harry's face. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, sir, nothing at all." Harry needed no reminder that Mr Keeny was an expert at deciphering body language after twenty-five years at Syn Wyngyn, and a few more before that as an Auror. He supposed he might have spoken too quickly. Or shifted his eyes. "I just thought Ginny – Miss Weasley might gain a lot by learning straight from field work."

"And what were you teaching her?"

"Er, investigation. Her teachers haven't gone too deep in the subject yet, but I hope we can work on that together."

There was a non-commital noise from Director Keeny. "You do know it's highly irregular for student teacher-and-junior teams to go out on the field so early." It wasn't a question.

Harry nodded. "I do. I just hoped to hone both our investigative skills. I know mine are better than hers, but I still need to work on it."

"What is your investigation?" the director inquired, keenly interested. It wasn't everyday that a student teacher wanted to improve their skills, let alone advance in his junior's training.

"We're trying to find someone who's been missing for seven years."

Keeny's face fell. "Potter, you can't believe that person is still alive after –"

Harry interrupted before they got into the numbers. Twenty-four hours, forty-eight hours, days. Weeks, maybe. Months, perhaps. But years? No. "– I'ts a sound investigation. Risk-free. We don't find him, we go home and forget about it. Simple."

But somehow, Harry had a niggling feeling that nothing would ever be simple again with Ron Weasley.

His boss's lips drew in a thin, grim line, then he nodded. Once. "I don't want a word on this, are we clear? Whatever you and Miss Weasley do is strictly confidential."

Harry understood. If word got out that Harry Potter and his junior trainee were given the green for such unorthodox advancement, hell would be a saving grace compared to what would come.

"Yes, sir," Harry nodded before rising.

"And Potter?" The director's eyes followed him sharply. "Do not miss classes again. Or duties."

"No, sir."

* * *

I booked the smallest of the conference rooms at Trembles & Katchersky for our inspection. By no means was it 'small', though. The table in the largest room held about seventy people; this one could hold twenty easily.

I had to lie to reserve it. Something about trying to settle out of court with my newest client and the D.A. Auror Buchanan had had to Transfigure his robes for the occasion. I still didn't picture him as a lawyer. I still heard the awful chant Lawyer! Liar! Lawyer! Liar! in my head.

As we settled down and I pulled my briefcase onto the table, Mr Clarke cleared his throat uneasily. "Please, please don't harm the texts. Some are as ancient as the Picts and Celts."

Runes, I thought excitedly, and smiled. Now what a challenge. "I promise they won't come to any harm."

"Let's get started already," Buchanan growled impatiently.

Wasn't he supposed to investigate the source of the fire? I wondered quietly even as I Levitated one of the texts and lay it in front of the Auror. Perhaps it was just like he said: I wasn't supposed to 'paw' through these, so he was making sure he at least got a look and understanding of what had been going on before the fire. That made sense. It was exactly what I was doing myself. After this, let him look for prints and DNA and… whatever else.

I Summoned a own text randomly – it ended up being the one Clarke had been working on – and marvelled at it. Earlier, I hadn't paid much attention to it. The right page was relatively well kept, and illuminated. Some of the gold foil had either lifted or 'bled' from the heat, but the designs were certainly impressive. "Twelfth century Insular art?" I inquired to Mr Clarke, pointing to my book.

He squinted from the distance, and nodded.

I'd seen and deciphered a few insular texts in my Ancient Runes class, toward the beginning, as practice for what was to come. Most had been in Primitive Irish, or ogham runes. Others, but fewer, in Irish, Scottish, Manx, Welsh, Cornish, or Breton. I wasn't fluent by any means, as Gaelic was a difficult tongue, but I'd learned to decipher certain words. The characters and script were very peculiar in the Insular period – certainly nothing we'd see today, even with the best scribes.

"All right." Buchanan turned pages carelessly with his wand. "What does this book say?"

Clarke turned a shade of puce and vaulted toward Buchanan's book, certainly wanting to pet it. "Let me…" His fingers inched toward the pages, but did not touch. "Ah… this was Leland's. He was researching the mythology of Valhöll, or Valhalla." At Buchanan's cool stare he ploughed on. "You know, warriors' heaven? In Norse mythology, only the bravest and noblest warriors were selected by the female Valkyrie and given eternal glory and afterlife in Valhalla where they forever rejoiced with contests amongst themselves and ever-replenishing meals, until the Ragnarok when Odin would summon his armies for the Last Battle, as it was called."

I could tell Buchanan was unimpressed. "Sounds very epic."

I thought to give him my mind, but instead gave Mr Clarke my two Knuts' worth. "Some people believed that legend meets reality. Werewolves, berserkers, vampires, harpies, the like – supposedly 'dark' half-beings. Some say they were created by Odin in wait for the Last Battle, until he Called them."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," Buchanan snorted.

Clarke visibly bristled. My patience was wearing thin, too. "Maybe," I said, "but it's still the mythology of a People. When the Vikings came to the Celtic Isles, they brought their stories with them into Gaelic mythology. They mingled with the Gaels. Some say William Wallace was a Berserker. Some say Jack the Ripper was a vampire. The name Valhalla was dropped from Gaelic folklore, but Celt warriors believed in a celestial kingdom for the brave – guess why honour in battle was so prized among the Gaels? The Valkyrie were dropped from Celtic legend, but war goddesses abounded in their folklore, and women battled in their own right."

Clarke was appraising me silently, making a delighted face. Christmas had come early for him.

I blushed. "I listened in History of Magic. Then took a Myths & Legends elective in university," I breathed from the tip of my lips.

"Whatever," the Auror said from across the room. "So it talks about Valhalla. Anything else?" Buchanan made a note on a small pad.

The historian turned a deep shade of red. "It talks about legends and essays on Valhalla," he said tightly. Turning to me, he continued smoothly, with a twinkle in his eye that hadn't been there a moment ago. "Some research has been conducted to find where the realm might be located."

"It's a goddamn myth," Buchanan hissed between his teeth.

Clarke chose to ignore our 'guest'. I was really proud of him. "I'm not familiar with germanic languages," he began, "but some have said that Valhalla translates into English as the Hall of the Chosen. Some think that Valhalla is on Earth, located in a hidden realm called Asgard. So, you see, some historians would just be delighted to find that realm –"

"If not to find the slain heroes, then to discover that glorious hall," I said, thoroughly awed at the prospect, and whistled low. On the one hand, wouldn't it be fantastic to meet those great fallen heroes? Yet, on the other, why disturb their eternal peace and uncover their secrets? Besides, regardless of whether such a god as Odin or such an army of fallen warriors ever existed, I was sure it would be better to doubt than to uncover the truth. Some legends were better left untouched.

"Exactly," Clarke replied, all smiles. "Personally I'm more interested in uncovering truths on paper, but there you have it. Man's thirst for the unknown, whether dangerous or not… Legend meets possible reality."

On a grand scale. "Have they found anything yet?" Buchanan arched a suddenly interested brow.

The historian shook his head. "Not from what I've read or heard."

I breathed out, not knowing I'd been holding my breath in. "Well, I would have certainly been surprised if they had. I'm sure Odin is shrewder than a few eager historians, pardon the insult.

Clarke laughed and left Buchanan's side, the book still untouched. "None taken, m'dear. I like your wit. So, which one did you pick?" Adjusting his spectacles over his nose, he looked over my shoulder at the damaged book before me. "Ah. Mysterious Magical Orders: From the Druids to the Nazis and Beyond. That was my text that night. The one rescued from a muggle garage sale." He looked up, stroking his beard thoughtfully. A shadow of something mournful shone in his gaze, then was gone just as quickly. "Did you know the Nazis hired several wizards and witches during the Second Muggle World War?"

I nodded. Of course, who didn't know that? Then I rolled my eyes inwardly. Probably everyone but me. "Yes. Grindelwald, for one. He tried to get Dumbledore. Er, the French witch Sabelle Trompine was coerced into working for them…"

He smiled. "Good. Very good. You'd have made a fine historian."

"Oh, I'm not much with past figures; I need to be able to 'know' who I'm studying, not just facts," I said with a little shy laugh. But it sure stroked my ego to know I hadn't lost my knack for remembering little tidbits here and there.

Clarke shrugged and turned back to the book. "Ah, yes. The prophecy." He straightened gravely and looked me in the eye. "I was deciphering this prophecy when the fire flared." He pointed to the page I'd been admiring before.

I bent closer over the page. A thin vellum sheet made of cowhide that had been skinned, stretched, dried, and cut, it matched those of most of the first section of the book. Some of those pages had had to be redone in a later century perhaps: Some were made of parchment, introduced in the medieaval period, some of paper, introduced later during the Renaissance.

The newer half of the book, penned or typed after Renaissance's flourishes, dealt with the newer magical orders or organisations.

The page I was looking at was of the 'ancient' category, carefully inked by hand, perhaps by a wizard monk, using organic inks: Ochre, hawthorn, gallnuts, etc. The gold foil, painstakingly laid on the page, illumed the capital, letting the eye appreciate the penmanship used in the illustrations. Drawings and woodcuts adorned the outer margin, beautiful in their own right. I was sure the page along would be worth millions in the manuscript market. So much artistry had gone into the page: Tanners, scholars, scribes, illustrators, woodcutters, binders… Too bad these arts had been lost to time since the Guttenberg press – except perhaps the woodcutters and later the engravers – in favour of quantity over quality. I was of a mind that books had more soul when they were created from the hands of men for whom bookmaking was an art and passion.

Auror Buchanan cleared his throat pointedly, catching me off-guard. I jumped a mile, recovered, and smiled sheepishly. Right. Business.

Ignoring the Auror's insolent yawn, I bent back over the book, and read.

* * *

He'd seen many a childhood acquaintance do it in the muggle school days. Never understood it. Or perhaps it was because there hadn't been anyone friendly enough – or, in any case, wanting that badly to be friendly with him after what Dudley would subject anyone to if they got close enough to see the midget in the corner at recess.

Harry sighed. Auld lang syne, and even then he didn't particularly care. Not when the after had been so good and complicatedly uncomplicated.

That was when present-day Harry smiled privately, leaning on the wall adjoining a noisy room. Complicatedly uncomplicated. Now that was an expression for it. Especially as insanity coated the walls of his life for six years while he was at Hogwarts. But those had been good years. Uncomplicated in its frenzy of dark lords, deceptive teachers, and ferrets, not to mention some of the meanest to weirdest to most lethal creatures he'd ever seen.

Yeah, that had been good.

But the point was, no one had ever waited on him after class. Ron and Hermione hadn't counted – they'd lived in each other's pockets ever since the mountain troll and trounced around together forevermore. Unless you counted waiting after Hermione after her Arithmancy class, which neither he nor Ron ever did. They did have limits. And Ginny? Well, he and Ginny had given a whole new meaning to 'healthy loving'. On both accounts. None of that lovesick puppy thing he'd often seen other guys pull at the expense of a healthy dose of male chromosomes, and yes, sure, some healthy teenaged loving never hurt. End of story not long afterward.

So waiting on her now like a BFF or a LSP (one misread letter and you were a far cry from lovesick puppy, weren't you?), neither of which he was, sure turned the tables on him years after Hogwarts. Go figure.

He figured he was a masochist, judging from how his last encounter with Ginny had ended. But he was here straight on Dean Keeny's orders. And how fucked up was it that he actually believed himself even as he knew it was a poor excuse for a lie? Very, he thought bleakly. But it couldn't be helped. He absolutely had to be there when Ginny exited that classroom. Whether he ended up Bogey-Bat hexed before he had time to get a word in or not.

And say what, bastard? his oh-so-helpful mind demanded smugly. It knew just how unlikely Ginny was to even try to listen to him. The woman was a force to be reckoned with.

Jesus, wasn't he training to cope with ruthless murderers and the lot? But the fact was, he reckoned he'd take a Russian mafiya wizard any day over getting all over Ginny in mortal verbal combat on any of her bad days. Which should prove interesting in a few seconds as class had clearly just ended. Harry heard things being shuffled and shoved bonelessly, and feet trampling tiredly closer.

Tiredly. So maybe she'd worked out some of her steam. Unlikely. The Weasleys were a resilient bunch, courtesy of some obscure Pictish-Norse druid warrior ancestors.

The bland and unstately white institution door slid open and revealed feet trundling past him as he kept his half-mast gaze firmly rooted to the floor so that he looked just the spitting image of a long-waiting BFF or LSP. If he was recognised, the junior students either didn't care anymore or were too sorely comatose from Cursing class. One or two limped uncomfortably on recent bruised legs. None wore Ginny's nondescript white sneakers. When that fact registered and no one else came out, he looked up and rightward sharply, thinking he might have missed her.

And came face to face with a weary- and wary-looking redhead leaning lightly on the opposite jamb. He'd been so busy studying shoes and pretending to doze that he hadn't heeded the soft hesitating and shifting noise as it happened. Damn.

It all happened in a millisecond or so where he was sure surprise, embarrassment, irritation and self-directed anger flitted over his features. In that moment he saw hers and summed her sole expression in one word: Impassive. Couldn't tell if it masked anger, indifference or, he doubted it, amusement. He'd seen it often enough on her in the past few years, but it ever astounded him how he couldn't read Ginny like a gladly open book anymore.

The next moment, she uncrossed her legs, still staring unblinkingly at him as though studying a peculiar subject. He might have taught her that skill. Merlin knew that in top form he could handle the best of them single-handedly. This one was no regular subject, though. She walked past him, hitching her bookbag higher over her hip, and threw over her shoulder, "Well, tell me what you want, then."

* * *

Well, wasn't it his luck? No plaguing Bat Bogeys… yet.

Harry swiftly followed Ginny down the labyrinthine maze of Syn Wyngyn that felt like home to him, coming just after Hogwarts and just before his house at Number Eight, Belmore Avenue, Manchester. He liked the house well enough, but it had the disadvantage of looking uncannily like Number One, Privet Drive. Hence why he preferred Apparating straight inside the walls or walking home late at night. Some memories just scathed. He'd let Hermione do the choosing. She'd needed a stable, familiar setting; he'd needed only a place to kick back and relax in once in a while after a day at school or work. Harry thought he might need ale and the telly once he sorted through this particular mess.

He went right to the mark. "Keeny approved our project."

Intelligent amber eyes covertly cut to him.

"So we've got the green light on trying to make sense of what's going on, except, er…" Here he reached out and tugged her backward by the elbow. She backtracked silently, though he noticed her obvious discomfort as she pulled her arm free. Harry ignored it and dropped his voice. "Walls have ears, so we'll have to keep this to ourselves."

To any outsiders, 'project', 'what's going on' and 'this' might mean nothing. To Syn Wyngyn regulars, however, it might refer to an illicit love affair.

It was no secret that one of the unspoken golden rules at Syn Wyngyn prevented trysts. You were instructed to become each other's shadow, but to keep your hands to yourself. Of course, many observed that prudent rule, but gossip traveled like wildfire. Harry had one too many times stumbled upon a close physical encounter to know that it did happen.

Bottom line was, he'd deliberately made his conversation with Ginny sound sneaky for a reason. Walls did have ears, and next thing he knew, gossip would fly all over the place in hushed tones. It was preferrable to the truth actually coming out, that he and Ginny were starting an investigation that would be sure to raise the ire of his comrades. He only hoped Ginny had been here long enough to know of Syn Wyngyn's thin walls as well.

Ginny's eyes flashed when he continued. "Wouldn't like everyone to know, now would we?"

"No, we wouldn't, so what'll we do about it?" she asked in silky tones.

He grinned. That was his girl. "Your place or mine?"

She didn't miss a beat. His breath hissed out of him as she slinked closer, her mouth next to his ear. "Mine. No prying ears. No sudden appearances. Quiet."

She was… better than he could have anticipated. His body tauted at the sensual suggestion in her voice, her body, the smell of her and her hair, but he quickly reminded himself that this was all make believe, made to make others believe they had it going behind closed doors. "Perfect," he said with a stiff smile.

The fact that they'd once dated wouldn't hurt the rumour (and betting, if he knew his mates well) mill. The fact that they'd ended so abruptly and for reasons unknown would stregthen it. And, last but not least, the fact that he was currently engaged to another woman would just have it implode in thousands of happy wagging tongues.

Perfect, as it were.

* * *

"So now what?"

Harry flopped into Ginny's sofa and let out a sigh. Then rubbed his tense neck. Hard. The earlier moment had been… weird. And loaded. But nothing more than a trick, that he knew. "Look, before we get into this, I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

His hostess sat opposite him gingerly as though warming to a dangerous beast, all sexual pretense gone but for her sprightly scent. "I played along with your gossip game," she retorted tightly, as though it should be obvious she was over it. But something in her shifting glance belied the fury she'd felt earlier.

"Yeah, and I'm built with a handle in back." His mouth settled in a line. "I wasn't thinking, Gin."

"Me neither. It's okay."

"I could have hurt you." Or worse, he thought guiltily, thinking of the spell he'd unconsciously thrown at her. Worse, he didn't even remember which one it'd been.

"I had it covered. And I could have hurt you, too."

His eyes crinkled. "That you cold. But it doesn't make it all right. I wasn't angry at you."

When he saw her hesitate to reply, he was at a loss.

"Er, and you were angry at me…?"

She shook herself as though to shake cobwebs. "Um, no. But – yeah – no."

"Well that made sense," he said after a moment, hoping to lighten her embarrassment. "It's all right I guess; I'm an arse."

He hoped she wouldn't agree.

She frowned. "Of course not. You're mighty insufferable, though." She managed to say it without a smile.

"O-kay." Was there something he could say in return? Like You've the sharpest temper I've ever seen?

"Oh, do shurt up." Point in case. "Could we get to Ron, please?"

Harry thought she was far too eager to change the subject. "What's bothering you?" he asked softly.

Silence, and when he thought she'd deflect it with another change of subjects, she finally replied. "You."

"Pardon me?"

She pursed her lips and shook her head suddenly, dismissively. "Nevermind. What's on the agenda?" she asked quickly.

"No, wait." Harry stood and crouched in front of her. "What's going on, Gin hon?" he asked, thoroughly perplexed.

Ginny lowered her head, avoiding his direct gaze. "Please don't call me that," she said tightly. "Look, I'm just knackered, all that stuff about Ron and school and stuff. I'm all right, really." Lifting her head, she managed a tight-lipped smile.

"Are you sure you don't want a raincheck? We can work tomorrow if you like."

"Rain…? Oh, no." She sat up and crept away. "No, let's do it now."

Harry frowned, stood back up. "Sure?" he asked warily, and was met with a firm nod.

"I won't break." But something wasn't right, though he wouldn't call her on it again and bruise her pride.

"All right. Keeny's approved this, on the condition that we keep this private and abort if nothing comes of our search. Oh, and we don't Syn Wyngyn hours. That goes for school, too."

She nodded her understanding; she'd never missed a class. "So where do we go next?"

Harry sighed. There was so much they could work with, he thought sarcastically. "We're hitting the library. Let's find out what other people are saying about the Last Battle." He'd never cared much for what other people had seen or done during the War, but in this case, someone else might have seen something he or Hermione or Ginny hadn't. Because they must all have missed something significant if he had the right of it.

Something on the battlefield of Spinner's End, right where Ron had fought those last moments, hadn't sat well with Harry, as if something huge had happened between the moment he'd seen his best friend get shot and when he'd turned back to find Ron standing no more. Something undefinable.

* * *

It was in Gaelic. Having had no formal training in the ancient tongue, but rather a deep passion for the language and peoples themselves, I could only try to guess what the prophecy said.

"Can you read Gaelic, Miss Granger?" Mr Clarke said, breaking my concentration. He was gazing at me, wonder and admiration in his expression and tone. I'd flummoxed him on that, too, I could tell. Any idiot could remember mythology and old legends, but learning a nearly dead tongue? I had a feeling telling him I was a fair Latin speaker would probably send him straight into a happy heart attack, so I refrained. I needed the man, after all!

"Not well, but I try."

He sighed happily. "Good! I'd have married you right off on the basis of being too perfect to miss."

I could feel the colour rise high on my cheeks as he gazed back down onto the vellum sheet, humming merrily. Right. So perfect…

"Ah, see," he said, pointing a hovering finger over a stanza, in which I recognised the name of Wotan, also known as Odhinn, "this stanza refers to Odin's army. Now I remember why Leland was studying Valhalla. A few weeks ago we were sent this sheet by itself by Owl Post, without a return address. I contacted all my historian friends; no one knew who might have sent it."

"Perhaps an acquaintance? A donor?" I interjected, though made note of finding the sender later. The Owl Post made note of every owl employed, as well as the sender's name. It shouldn't be too hard to straighten that out.

Clarke shrugged. "Either way, we pored over the sheet; Danny translated it on a separate sheet – lost in the fire, I'd wager, but I think I can manage translating it on my own this time. We found Odin's name through it all and Leland went off researching Valhalla to compare its legend to the one described herein – not quite similar, as far as I could tell, but I'm not an expert myself. The only similarity I found with what I knew of Valhalla was between Odin's army of dead warriors and those magical protectors that this legend makes out to be Odin's children."

"Who?" I asked, more perplexed now than illuminated by his fascinating story. From the corner of my eye, I could feel Buchanan's wandering gaze settle and still on us. My skin prickled uneasily, as though it awaited dreadful news from Clarke, or rash action from Buchanan. Old myths had always thrilled me, made my blood boil for more, as though it craved for stories that explained my past, or others' past. But now? I shivered, and not in gleeful excitement.

"The Guardian Brotherhood." He stroked the sheet's edge; there the vellum seemed to come to life, as it did from the exchange of oil from hand to cowhide, the colourful Celtic designs gleaming with sudden light. "This appears to be the one prophecy, told hundreds of years ago to their first Circle of Elders, and then scribed by their lorekeeper to be protected. The prophecy itself was smashed, hence why no record survives, only myth and legend."

"Except for this," I said, mesmerised by the sheet's uniqueness.

Clarke nodded. Nothing else moved within the room. "Now you understand why I included it in Mysterious Magical Orders."

I was still thinking silently about it all when something didn't quite sit right with me. I shook my head, frowning, thinking aloud. "Why would it get to you now?" I asked, ripping my gaze away from the sheet and studying my client's face now. "Do you know something about the Brotherhood? Do you know if it has enemies?"

There was a loud bang at the far end of the room, setting my head spinning, but it was only Buchanan, veins popping out, murderous and intent stare suddenly right in my face. "All right, that's it, no more fantasies. Give me this." He reached out toward the open tome, wildness in his eyes, and nostrils flaring when I pulled it toward myself at the last second. Very silkily he leaned down, and smiled a nasty one. "I see you've keen reflexes, Miss Granger. Also a keen mind, but do not fuck with me. I would make life very difficult for you."

I smiled, not kindly. "Men, Mr Buchanan, are an impatient sort. They think they have all the power in the world. They do not."

"Ah," he replied with a raucous laugh, "but I am no mere man." He paused, as though weighing his words for effect, and then a wicked smile stretched his lips. "I am an Auror, Miss Granger. You would do well to remember this."

I sat staring up at him, a position of weakness to be sure, but comforted myself in knowing that in a few minutes' time I'd have deciphered one of the possible reasons why all hell had broken loose on Bert Clarke. "One more moment. Surely you can spare that much time?"

He grunted low in his throat and let me roam the text a little longer. I doubted the man even understood Gaelic, but with a Scottish surname like Buchanan, you never knew. The next moment I Levitated the heavy book, complete with inserted insular Gaelic text, to Auror Buchanan's side of the table. "I believe you have an arson report to get to," I suggested sweetly. "Mr Clarke and I have some business to attend to."

He watched me closely as he gathered the book into a bag and moved on to the mahogany door I gestured to. I knew I'd be seeing more of him – or rather, since Mr Clarke would be spending so much time with me building his defense against the Aurors' culpability claim, I would see Buchanan a hell of a lot more than I wished to. As soon as the door closed behind him I sensed a short magical burst beyond – anger, perhaps? Buchanan had seemed to me to be on a short fuse – what the hell was the Department of Magical Law Enforcement getting into with such disrespect of the common person? But I let it drop. Not my fight.

"Didn't you want to know what it said?" Mr Clarke asked breathlessly. Obviously our confrontation had made him anxious. "The text! Why did you let it go?"

I turned to him, smiling slowly. "It's all in here," I said, tapping the side of my head."

* * *

The man called Honos sat upright, reeling from the visual spell, and caught himself on the bedpost. "Shit."

Did the woman do anything right?

* * *

There was… nothing. Nothing of value, that is. Reports of Harry's success in battle and personal accounts of people present on the battlefield aplenty. But, nothing on good ol' Ron. it was as if no one had even seen beyond their own bubble and Harry Potter, their saviour and messiah. It was as if his best friend had never existed. I was here on the night of the Legendary Last Battle. I threw this spell and that and then saw with mine own eyes the one with the scar, Harry Potter – as if they didn't already know who he was by now – defeat Lord V – well, the Dark Lord for the Last. Time. I drank myself to the ground and lived to tell this blah blathery blah tale. End of Story. Thanks be to you. goodbye. And thanks for the Ten Knuts. I'll spend them on my next drinking binge.

Harry was beginning to think that coming to the Elaine Ved Libraryes had been a mistake. Sentence after sentence after word began to look the same to him. bits and pieces kept echoing in his mind. The Dark Lord stood tall… inhuman eyes staring back at Harry Potter… shrouded… The spells met… battled… Harry Potter… vindictive… won.

Harry blinked. Jesus, he didn't need rehashing; he needed answers.

"Hey," Ginny suddenly breathed, jarring him from yet another unofficial Harry Potter biography. At least that last one had been well penned. "That's it." She lifted her eyes, and they glowed within. "This talks about Ron."

Tripping over his own feet, Harry managed to join her on the other side of the table. "Where?"

She smiled and gave him a leering grin. "You know, you're the teacher; you should be the one finding this stuff and being all higher-than-thou about it. As well as being a pain in my arse, which you are of course. So, you just need to work on –"

"Spare me the bullshit," Harry growled, though he couldn't help but appreciate her spunk. "Where?"

For mere answer, she pointed. He read.

"Chapter Twenty, When Harry Potter "Lost": 1998 was the year that saw the end of Harry Potter's destiny as saviour against the Dark Lord. What, then, came next for the wizarding world's poster man? For nothing seemed to wait for him at the end of the line – had he even made plans to survive? Rumours circulate about the content of the lost prophecy which bound the Boy Who Lived to Lord Voldemort all those years ago: Was one destined to die at the hand of the other? And, if so, did Harry Potter believe he stood a chance at the time? Many seem to think he did not, for did he not disappear after the Last Battle?

"This kind of behaviour, says magipsychologist Gerard Butterworth, suggests a withdrawal. Did something affect Potter so that he could not live with constant reminders of what he had lost during the War? Butterworth suggests Potter's friend Ronald Weasley, who disappeared during the last moments at Spinner's End. No body was ever found, and Everhard Whitney, who fought in the battle and witnessed Weasley's disappearance, was as baffled as anyone was when Weasley disappeared out of nowhere. 'Snap! One second he was there, the next he weren't. And he weren't even hit or Disapparated away. I'd have recognised that, I would. There's no explanation for it. But it were mighty weirder with all the chaos around us.' Weasley, Butterworth explains, could have been the trigger for an emotional withdrawal that Potter…"

Harry trailed off and cleared his throat loudly, breaking the spell of awkwardness that clasped him. "Right. Well. No great help, but it does support what we were thinking. He didn't Disapparate – I remember Whitney, he's not a liar, and he knows his spells – and he wasn't hit."

Harry didn't realise he was raking his hair until Ginny's hands stilled his. He looked up and met her understanding gaze. "So what do we do now?" she asked.

He was sorely tempted to just close his arms around her until this was all over. Merlin knew the toll this was taking on her. But he sighed, and stood. "Let's go meet Whitney. Maybe he can shed some light on this all."

* * *

Something had been bugging me since meeting Buchanan. No, actually, it had started bugging me when he'd insisted on being with me when I studied the books with Clarke. He'd been nice enough – relatively – until I'd admitted to collecting the evidence in his place; then, all hell had broken loose. Granted, a mere lawyer didn't usually do an Auror's dirty work, but I hadn't seen anything wrong in helping his investigation along – hell, I hadn't touched anything. A little gratefulness had never hurt anyone.

And it wasn't like he'd had to be there when Clarke and I had discussed the books. I was a professional, for God's sake, not a clueless ten year-old twit. But I'd chalked it down to the famed Aurors' Paranoia.

It still bugged me, though.

I'd written down, word for word and from memory, what had been written on the manuscript for Clarke and myself, and then set off toward the Aurors' Department. The good thing about it was that we were on the same floor. The bad thing was that the lone receptionist was swamped. I didn't mind.

When I entered, she looked at me wild-eyed, as though afraid I'd ask her to triple speed. "Just a moment –" She grabbed a handful of memos whizzing round her head, read them, Duplicated them, and sent the originals by owl toward, I suspected, Aurors working undercover on the field. Then she filed the copies, and turned to me. "Good afternoon. How may I help you?" she asked with a strained smile, trying not to notice the multiple memos being constantly added to those already flitting by.

"I'm looking for Auror Kyle Buchanan. Is he busy?"

She blinked a moment. "Buchanan?" We haven't had a Buchanan since I was here. Let me check if he might be on our field list…" She rolled toward a cubicle shelf behind her and then shrugged as she scanned the names. "No, I'm sorry. He might have worked with us before, though. Your best bet would be to verify with Employment downstairs. Is he a friend of yours?"

I gritted my teeth. "Something like that." What a lying SOB. "Thanks anyway, I appreciate."

As soon as my back was turned, I heard memos being snatched once more from the air.

Next stop: Ministry Employment, Level One. They'd know if Buchanan was truly the cockroach that he was.

"Buchanan, hmm, Buchanan…" the clerk, a wiry bespectacled man, said, sifting through his records when I asked. "2006. This should hold the list of all employees working for the Ministry this year. By alphabetical order, please," he told the thick black binder. "B, B, B… ah, Bailey… Berstone… Bolton… Buchanan." He paused. "You said Kyle, right?"

"Yes," I replied, trying to see over the counter.

He frowned, then looked up, pushing his glasses back up his nose. "No Kyle Buchanan at all, but a Kelly Buchanan up in Magical Transportation…?"

"No…" A thought occured. "Can you maybe look through previous years?"

"Sure." He smirked. "Long-lost sweetheart, eh?" he asked off-handedly.

What was up with that? "Not really. Please…" I motioned to the shelfful of records.

"Yes, of course." He scrambled after them, returning with a pile.

Minutes later, they found him. Or one Kyle Buchanan, in any case.

"He lived in Glasgow five years ago. Worked for, ah yes, the Auror Department. It says here he…" He stopped and read silently, then looked up with a sober expression. "Er, he was working undercover on a secret operation, and one day he disappeared. They never found the body. I'm sorry. Were you close?"

"Disappeared?" I exclaimed. "I saw him."

A pitying expression came over the clerk. "Ma'am, would you like me to –"

"Thank you."

I returned to my office, and thought for the longest time. Dammit, this day went from bad to worse. And I needed some sleep. When it was all I could do not to dig a hole through my head, I went out to breathe. Walking outside usually cleared my brain. This time, despite all the walking I did, I couldn't help but feel like something cold and huge was closing over me.

Danger. I couldn't explain it, but female intuition wasn't something to simply ignore.

* * *

I had to talk to him.

He'd better have a damned good reason for having lied about being an Auror.

Unfortunately, now that he didn't work for the Ministry, I had no idea where to find him. Great. Wherever he was, he was probably laughing his arse off about fooling a female lawyer, praising himself like the sexist bastard he was. I'd been so stupid to intrinsicly trust him.

So where was he, now? Still in London? Probably not. But something nagged at me again: If he wasn't an Auror, then what were his motives for wanting those books?

That clamp went nuts again, and I sat down on a nearby park bench.

Shit. That was it. Something about the books had interested him, but what? I scrounged through my memories, trying to remember, and coming up empty handed. He'd seemed… bored, superior, even, about the whole ordeal.

I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. "Seemed" was keyword, here. I ran through my memory tapes again. What had stood out? When had his demeanor changed? A slight movement, not enough to give him away at once, but maybe… something.

And I opened my eyes, suddenly seeing clearly. When I'd been admiring the manuscript, the prophecy, he'd cleared his throat, eager to get things rolling! When Clarke had been telling us – me, really – the story, I'd felt his eyes still on us. He'd been eager to know who or what the prophecy referred to! And then, before he'd left, he'd banged his fist on the table and been eager to leave with the book!

Merlin, Circe and Amergin, we were in deep shit. I was in deep shit. I should have been able to tell something was off with this man – that's what we lawyers did all day. But, really, had I imagined that I was being played? Not a moment. I was ready to bet on that. He'd played his Auror part to the tee – because he'd been one before.

So the prophecy was interesting to him… Now, the question was: Could he read Gaelic?

I sincerely hoped not. But someone – two someones – could: Myself, and Mr Clarke.

He hadn't come to me. He likely wouldn't, under any circumstances. I might be a woman, but I was a lawyer. He wouldn't take the chance.

* * *

He was there. I wasn't surprised.

"Miss Granger! We were just talking about you," Mr Clarke greeted me with a warm smile; Buchanan, with a cool glare.

"Really…" I said speculatively, advancing into what had previously been something of a warzone the last time I'd been there. It had since been cleaned up somewhat. The coal dust that had covered the floor was not mostly gone, save for a small perimetre around the point of source. "Who cleaned up?" I asked absently.

Clarke's smile staggered, but remained. He was trying very hard not to notice where they were. "Some Aurors came in earlier, I was told, while we were all talking. Auror Buchanan here tells me they're moving along quickly through the investigation. Hopefully this will all be over soon."

I turned to Auror Buchanan, all teeth out. "Auror? I paid a visit to the department a little while ago. They said you were gone," I said meaningfully, sweetly. "Do you care to explain?"

Clarke's eyebrows bunched up. "I don't understand. He was with m–"

Buchanan held up a hand, effectively cutting him off, then glared my way. "Let's have this conversation in private, Miss Granger."

I almost snorted derisively. Barely held it in check. "Of course." I led the way past the glass windows and through a narrow corridor, then whirled, waiting.

"Temper unbecomes you, my dear," Buchanan said smoothly, a wolfish grin stretching his lips.

I visibly bristled. "Answer the damn question, Buchanan."

He shrugged casually. "Very well. I was an Auror, once, then left the force. End of story."

Oh, I wouldn't let him off so easily. "Who are you working for now?"

"Does it matter?"

Ya think? "Oh, yes."

He paused. "I'm with a new agency."

I crossed my arms. "Humour me, Agent Buchanan."

He hesitated, met me head-on. "Syn Wyngyn," he said slowly.

I felt like someone had head-butted me.

Buchanan leaned lazily against the wall, studying his nails in a disaffected manner. "I don't know what's in the book," he continued, carefully studying me, "and I really don't care, but I've been told to find it and so I have."

"Why did you tell me you worked for the Arson division?"

His smirk was all toothy, but far from friendly. "So I wouldn't get the twenty questions like I'm getting now. Besides, I was with Arson before. I'm good with fire. Except Syn Wyngyn has me, now. Tough luck."

It still didn't sit well with me. Something told me I was right. "Why should I believe you? Again."

The challenge was clear in his eyes. "Or you can believe me and get out of my fucking face." With that, he shouldered his way past me, leaving me with two options. Sometimes the hardest choices were of the true-or-false variety. Or life-or-death. I had a shivering doubt that maybe I was treading delicate ground, here.

I glanced at my watch, and heard my stomach groan. I was done here. It had been a long day.

* * *

Everhard Whitney didn't shed light. At least, not verbally.

The heavyset bearded man had been in the middle of enjoying an afternoon game of Quidditch on the Wireless when they rang his front door. He'd greeted them fairly happily, shoving empty beer cans off the tea table so they could have a spot of tea. They declined politely.

"We were hoping we could ask you a few questions regarding the Last Battle," Ginny offered next to Harry, sitting on the edge of the couch – there were crumbs where she would have normally sat.

Whitney cast a suspicious eye at her. "You a reporter?"

"No," Harry answered, "she's with me."

Ginny tried not to acknowledge the tingles running down her spine as he said this. "My name's Ginny. Ginny Weasley."

It was obvious he had an inkling who she was, for his eyes flickered. "Weasley… You're the youngest? Short tiny little thing with a mean wand?" He studied her thoroughly, not waiting for an answer. She was speechless anyway after such a blunt approach. "Yeah, that'll be you," he concluded with a satisfied nod.

Never underestimate the power of memory, Ginny found herself thinking. Even with alcohol thrown in the mix.

Harry suppressed a smile with difficulty, then straightened. "Whitney. Look, we're here about Ron Weasley, Ginny's brother. Is it okay if we ask some questions? It looks like you're the last one who saw him."

Whitney's obliging smile waned. "Lot of people that night, Potter. The place was swarming with cockroaches. What I saw – I can't be certain about anything."

"You gave that interview," Ginny pointed out.

He grimaced. "Press distorts everything. I said I thought I saw him go out like a candle. Don't mean anything in court." He threw up his hands. "I was battling three Death Eaters, for God's sake."

Harry nodded. That was something he understood all right. One Voldemort had more than equaled a share of his minions. "No one's questioning your part that night. You did great."

Whitney's cheeks reddened at being hailed by Harry Potter. "Thanks."

"It'd be nice, though," Harry continued thoughtfully, "if we could examine your memory. Would you mind?"

Whitney shrugged. "No problem, Boss."

Harry reddened himself, ever the humble man. "Hey, none of that anymore, yeah?"

"Sorry." Whitney's shaved head dipped, shiny and flushed.

Throwing a little grin at Harry – yet another fan – Ginny then sobered. "Do you have a Pensieve nearby?" They should have thought about that, she thought with a little inward kick.

"Um, yeah. I'll be a second." He dragged his portly frame around the flat, then reappeared a moment later with a portable Pensieve. "Sometimes I just want to forget, you know?"

Harry knew. He'd considered just trashing the damn memories shortly after the Last Battle, only to realise that most of them had had some good in them: Cold, rainy, scary day awaiting the enemy, not knowing when or if they'd strike today – his friends had been there through it all.

Ginny knew. Broken family, broken heart, broken tears. Because of different people, she'd wanted to forget who she was, even. Stop the pain. Become invisible. Bring back the dead. But she'd held on for dear life, always knowing that she would come around. She had. She thought.

"There it is." Whitney was holding out a phial.

"Let's do it," Harry said.

They did it, holding hands and tumbling together through the memory.

At first, they heard and saw nothing but mayhem under a starry sky. Then, they saw him, a Whitney with pale hair and rough whiskers, shooting spells at one, two, three darkly robed figures that weren't close to letting up.

"There," a present-day Ginny pointed, and Harry turned. Sure enough, he saw himself, a younger, less jaded version of himself who looked on the world so idealistically. An innocent, fresh-faced young man who'd been thrown into the mix from day one. The Boy Who Lived.

Next to him but a few steps off, Ron fought like a tiger, deflecting just as much as he flung back. Looking on now, Harry felt pride tightening his heart. Then he heard Ginny's soft sniff, and instinctively turned to collect her in his arms. He couldn't help it. Just held her until her tears subsided. When she lifted a hand to swipe at her eyes, he held her loosely, and both of them watched the scene unfold before their eyes: Ron was hit, fell hard, losing his grip on his wand, and…

Disappeared.

* * *

"What was that all about?" Ginny asked, holding her voice in check as they appeared in the entrance of Syn Wyngyn. Ron's disappearing act had broken her all over again, but she held on. Harry wished he were that strong the first time, even.

"Dunno," he replied quietly, then raised his voice as he spotted someone beyond Ginny. "Hey Hopkins."

Tom, in a gloomy mood it seemed as he walked with a reluctant gait next to his "ugly" partner, glanced over and grinned, the change in his face spectacular. "Oi there, you're both off-duty tonight, what are you doing here? Not that I mind," he finished with a wink Ginny's way. "Weasley, always looking mighty fine."

She arched an otherwise unimpressed eyebrow. "Thanks…" Then she turned to Miranda Anto, the tall brunette at his side, with a warmer smile. "How's the ankle?"

Miranda rolled her brown eyes. "It was such a stupid misstep, too." She glanced down wryly at her left boot. "Feels better now, though. Thanks."

"Anyway," Tom cut in forcefully. Obviously he disliked Miranda for all his ill treatments. Ginny had never understood the guy, but Harry seemed to like him so she stuck on. Miranda was nice enough, the only positive about Hopkins in any case, but wasn't exactly a bombshell, and that was exactly what he constantly bemoaned. Serves you right, she thought contentedly, then glanced contritely at Miranda. Sorry hon. They often ran the mill together, or spotted one another at the weight machines. If anything, Miranda was perhaps the closest to a friend she had at Syn Wyngyn. My life is sad, she concluded.

"So what are you up to?" Tom continued, looking, Ginny realised, straight at her. She wanted to groan aloud, stomp her foot and tell him to thump tail elsewhere. When would he get the message?

Harry answered for her, evasively. "Oh, you know, training…"

Tom grunted grimly in reply. "That's tomorrow," he sounded resigned, looking at Miranda like she was the rat and he didn't want the plague. "You've some place to be? I'm ravenous." This he directed at Harry, evidently counting on the fact that two men surely equaled steak for dinner.

"Actually," Harry started hesitantly, cutting a glance her way, "we've some work to go over –"

To hell with it. They'd been over it all day. They deserved a break. "Dinner wouldn't hurt," Ginny proposed. "I'm wiped, myself." Then, because she didn't feel like eating dinner alone, and she definetely didn't feel like waiting for her food at a cheap restaurant, she blurted out, "Hey, why don't you all come over? I can whip something up quick."

Tom's eyebrows shot up suggestively. "Keep talking dirty, sweetheart. I like that pottymouth of yours."

Harry coughed, thumped the back of Tom's head. "Dude, shut up. Really." Then, to Ginny, "Yeah, sure, sounds good. Then we can talk about that thing," he said with emphasis on the last word.

Lowering her brows, meaning anything really, Ginny replied, "Yes, that thing…"

Miranda arched a sceptical brow. Obviously, gossip ran rampant in the building. Ginny wanted to laugh aloud. She and Harry? Quickly, she sobered at the thought. Ah, yes, she and Harry…

* * *

Dinner at the Weasleys' had always been fantastic. Bit peaky? You deserved enough food for an army. Having been raised with the best around him, and yet not "deserving" all that opulence, had made the experience at Molly's a feast for the senses. Ginny had evidently learned from the best, he learned later. On their way over to her flat, they'd stopped at the local grocery store while she bought the necessary for whatever she'd planned off the blue. Of the four of them, Harry had seemed the less outlandish. Of course, they'd all, at one point or another in their lives, been among muggles, and taken Muggle Integration and Association classes at Syn Wyngyn, besides. Yet, they were all curious and excitable, trying to see how the refrigerators worked, and how the cooked chickens stayed hot all day. Thankfully, Harry didn't have to confiscate any wands, but they attracted unnecessary attention anyway with their antics.

When they finally faced the cashier, Harry butted in before Ginny could start counting her muggle money which, he'd seen when she'd pulled out her wallet, was mixed with wizards' money. "Here," he handed the girl his credit card, earning him a wistful half smile. Wish I had a man to take care of me like that, he clearly read on her face. Okay, so maybe he was being nice and gallant after all.

Tom rolled his eyes goodnaturedly as he signed the cashier's copy, then shoved the receipt in his pocket and grabbed the plastic bags in one fluid motion.

In the end, he was happy to have been gallant and would have done so again in a heartbeat. Shrimp béchamel on crispy nests. He loved shrimp béchamel with a passion. The sauce was thick, the shrimps slightly crispy, the nests full of melted goat cheese and brocoli. He was in heaven.

"I reiterate," Harry said between long, savoury bites, "you should have been a chef. You and your mum both."

"Béchamel's not that hard," Ginny replied humbly, her ears turning pink to match her rosy cheeks. "You stir, it's ready. Voilà."

Miranda groaned both in pleasure and in annoyance. "Easy for you to say. Mine turns liquid every time. I even burned my soup once. It's like a curse. I'm a menace in the kitchen."

Tom broke out in a fit of chuckles. "You burned your soup? Holy hell, you are bad."

She eyed him back crossly. "I make a mean milkshake, though."

Ginny nodded. "I second that. Kiwi and strawberry, be still my craving heart." Fanning herself with her spoon, she grinned deviously. "Beat that, Hopkins."

"Uh," he floundered, "steak?"

The girls rolled their eyes. "All right, I'll give you that. A lot of men burn their meat," Ginny conceded. Then she turned. "Harry?"

Harry, who'd been silent until then, smirked. "Pastries. The Dursleys at least liked that about me. Think danishes, croissants, cakes, the likes."

Mouths agape, the girls just stared. Then Miranda groaned. "Okay, you definetely win. Nothing beats a man who can bake and doesn't screw up. Oh Circe, I think I'm in love with you." The announcement was so surprising that everyone burst out laughing.

"You disgust me, Potter," was Tom's guffawed reply. Harry flashed him a perfect set of teeth. Just then, his mobile went off. Fishing it out, he looked at the caller ID and stood up. "Sorry, I've to answer this." With another quick slurp of – yum – béchamel sauce, he was off to the next room.

Ginny watched him go even as Miranda started on her favourite cakes.

* * *

"Hey, how are you?" Harry asked, knowing Hermione was just checking up on him. She often called him after work to see if he'd be home when she got there.

"I'm all right, it's been a busy day, to say the least. I just wanted to know when you'll be home. I can never remember your schedule," she said between two yawns.

He laughed. Schedule? What schedule? As far as he was concerned, he was around the clock even when he slept. He could be called in any time of the night or day. As for school, well, that was fairly regular. "I don't have a schedule, Hermione. And, er," he passed a hand over his face, "I dunno when I'll be home. I'm having dinner and then Ginny and I have to work on a search case."

"Oh, well, sounds fascinating," was her unfascinated response. "I won't wait up, then. Have fun and… say hi to Ginny," she suddenly blurted.

He smiled indulgently at her effort. "Will do." He paused. "Listen, you didn't s–"

"No, Harry," she answered quickly. "Good night."

"Night." Frowning, he disconnected and stared at the phone. Where are you, Ron?

* * *

It had been a long day. By the time I got home, I was nearly boneless and wanted to curl up and let sleep claim me. God knew I was that tired. It was a miracle I'd even Apparated safely. I didn't know if sleepiness somehow screwed with Harry's wards, so I'd Apparated just outside his fixed perimetre.

The lights were out in the house.

I hadn't done that, had I?

Shrugging, I discreetly took out my wand and unlocked the door – another completely-paranoid-Harry mechanism that recognised our wands when inserted in the hole of the lock. From afar, I looked like anyone unlocking my door. The trick was to Reduce your wand, and ta-dah! Open sesame!

I let myself in, feeling increasingly uncomfortable about the darkness – I hadn't turned off the lights – and shrugged out of my tailored jacket. There had to be an explanation. Maybe Harry had come back some time during the day for a quick lunch? Maybe he'd forgotten a change of clothes after a spot at the gym? Had he gone to the gym? Harry's days were so unpredictable that sometimes I couldn't help but feel a little disoriented myself. If he liked his life that way, well then, by God, I couldn't understand him.

Have you ever?

No, I couldn't say I ever had.

"Hermione."

Shrieking, I missed the peg, but glanced into the living room and expected him.

"Sorry." He sounded rueful, but she appreciated the warm tone of his voice. "I didn't want to surprise you like last time." A hint of a smile played with the shadows. His hood was up, but concealed nothing of his face to her.

Placing a hand over my still-beating-too-fast heart, I shook my head in bewilderment. "What are you doing here?"

All amusement died from his face, all hardness in place for something she wasn't looking forward to. "I told you not to get involved," he growled accusingly. "Save Clarke's arse in court if need be, yes, but leave the damn details to me!"

I laughed, a harsh, snorting one. "You didn't tell me anything, Ron. How was I supposed to know your mind?" Then, suddenly, something clicked in what he'd said. "You sent Clarke to me, didn't you?"

He seemed hesitant a moment, then ran his hand over his face. "Yeah. Shite."

Standing so far away, I had no idea what was playing over his features. "What?" I stepped closer, squinting in the darkness to see him. I felt like the mouse that tries to scurry in front of the cat for the cheese. "What's going on?" Gosh, I was tired of asking this one. I would officially remove it from my vocabulary once this – whatever this was – was over.

His voice was grim when he answered with another question of his own. "Do you happen to know what the book Mysterious Magical Orders is?"

"Yes…" What the hell did that have to do with anything?

He came out of the shadows then, closer, until his face, with all its brutal hardness, was right in mine. "Where is it?"

I'd never heard him take that tone before. It was so surprising, so frightening, that shudders shook me as I replied, "C – Clarke had it when the f –"

"Yes, I know," he interrupted with a faint grimace. "Where is it now?"

As he closed his hand over my wrist, I watched, as though from above. Intent and tension stretched his face and all of his body taut. He wanted that answer, wanted it so bad, like… Something depended on that lore book. What? What was it?

"Syn Wyngyn," I answered as calmly as I could.

He released me, swearing. "Fuck, you told Harry?"

"No!" I replied against what I knew would be a verbal onslaught. "No, I didn't, except Auror Buchanan – only he's not an Auror at all, he says he works on Syn Wyngyn time – came to Clarke's office when I was there picking up evidence."

Facing away, he snorted derisively. "Leave that to the real Aurors, they wouldn't know what to look for anyway." With a deep breath, he turned back around, gentler as he addressed me again. "I told you not to get involved, Hermione. It's too dangerous."

"What am I involved in, anyway? Now that I'm knee-deep in it?"

Ron grimaced, rubbing his face wearily. "I'm not going there."

Throwing up my hands in a helpless gesture, I huffed. "I'm not a little girl, Ron, not after the war. Let me in. I've tough skin."

He gazed at me for a long, pregnant moment during which I hoped, wished I could understand what Ron feared. Because, I felt it, something stopped him.

"I can't."

"Or won't."

"Can't."

"Why?"

"I swore."

That made me grin. "Then swear some more. Breaking the rules will come more easily," I said, stepping closer into his comfort zone. His hands fell tomy hips almost as an afterthought.

"Hermione…" He sighed, closing his eyes. There was a long moment of silence, then he sighed, as though finally giving in. I should have been more prepared for less. "What do you know of the Legend of the Guardian?"

"I know it's a prophecy regarding Odin or his troops, and that the original record of the prophecy was smashed, probably to keep their secrecy." I paused. "How am I doing?"

"You're – great." He sounded astonished that I would know so much, and with reason: Most people never learned of the Guardian Brotherhood itself. I was lucky I'd even learned it from Mr Clarke. Shaking his head in dismay, Ron was muttering beneath his breath. "Damn, this is all wrong." Then, focusing back on me, he continued, "Do you know where this Syn Wyngyn is? I need to get the parchment back."

"Are you kidding? Harry won't tell me. I don't think he even knows where he goes himself. The place is probably Unplottable, Untraceable, and Scrambled. Welcome to the new millenium," I finished sarcastically.

Apparently in deep thought, stroking his whiskered chin, Ron was muttering once again. I only caught the end of it. "That's why I can't find it." Then he jostled back to the present, and replied to my comment, grimly. "Oh, I know all about that, don't worry. Half the time I don't even know where I am."

I couldn't help it. "Where are you?"

I read exasperation on his face. Smart arse. "With you," he replied nonetheless, matter-of-factly.

"Oh, thanks," I replied, "and I'm stupid."

He offered me a quick, self-satisfied smirk. "You know I can't tell you."

Merry-go-round. "Then tell me something: Since you sent him to me, did you save Bert Clarke from the fire as well?"

Ron's eyes grew wide, shifty. "What? No."

Arching an expressionless eyebrow, I jabbed him hard in the chest. "Liar. You're talking to a lawyer, remember." I was going to go into a long-winded argument about how lying didn't get past me – more notably, his lying – when I stopped myself, eyes widening to the size of saucers. "Oh Merlin, you did. That – that spot was full of concentrated magical residue –"

"What?" Ron was slowly backing away.

"I feel magic, remember? You used to say it'd be our saving grace." I stared into his eyes, deep wary blue pools. "It was just like before you cast the Triquetra! And before you Disapparated from my booby-trapped house." I stared, hard. "Ron, tell me what's going on – what are you – or help me God I'll go nuts."

He touched my elbow. "Hon, I –"

Jerking away, I yelled in his face. "God damn you!"

"Easy…" Soothingly, Ron started rubbing my arms, and I went limp from exertion. Would this day never end? I was ready for a break. "Okay, look," he continued, "it will all make sense if I can find the parchment."

Quietly, I added my two Knuts. "I doubt Buchanan speaks Gaelic, let alone reads it. Hardly anyone does anymore."

"Yeah?" Ron asked, stilling, and I looked up to see steely eyes staring back at me. "Humour me."

I thought about the possibilities. Buchanan had lived in Glasgow, Scotland, according to his file at the Ministry. Hadn't there been an educational reform? Didn't all schoolchildren learn Gaelic in school nowadays? Had it been implemented in Buchanan's time? Had he gone to a muggle school before, I supposed, Hogwarts? Or did he have family living further north in the isles where Gaelic was still largely spoken? "Oh, shit," I quickly summed up, seeing where logic led. There was just no way of knowing if he did speak it. And if he did, then… What?

"Yeah. Where's Harry?"

"With Ginny," I answered offhandedly, then saw his eyes stir speculatively. "They're partners at Syn Wyngyn," I clarified. "He's her student teacher, or something. Like a tutor."

"And…" he deadpanned, obviously seeing adultery where I did not. And besides, Harry and I… well, we were engaged, but it wasn't exactly chocolate and roses love.

"It's nothing like that," I defended once more. "Harry said they're having dinner with some friends and then they have to work on a search case."

A grin split his face, making him look… younger. Goodness, how I missed his cockiness. "I'm great at that. Found you, didn't I?"

Rolling my eyes at him, I headed toward the kitchen for a semblance of supper – salad? "Yeah, be a macho now. I'll be right over – wait." Pausing in my steps, my eyes closed in on my jacket on its peg in the entrance.

"What?" Ron was looking around, alert, searching for danger.

There, in my pocket, was the prophecy I'd scribbled on a sheet of paper. Striding toward it, I yanked it out, and strode back toward the dark-robed man in my living room. "Here, take this," I said, handing it to him.

"What is this?" he demanded even as he took it. Warm, long fingers brushed over mine. Wariness played in his eyes as he beheld the piece of scrap paper in my hands, oblivious to my shiver.

I left my hand there, useless, if only to feel a hot tingle course down my spine in spurts. "The prophecy," I whispered.

He took it gingerly, holding it at reading distance. His eyes met mine, astonished. "How did you…?"

I shrugged, hugging myself against a cold draft. I felt suddenly bereft without his fingers grazing mine. "Hey, memory is my forte."

He stared unblinkingly for a long moment, then glanced down at the paper, and swore. "Shite, you're not supposed to have this."

"Why not?"

He shook his head. "Not yet."

Go-round… "Or what, Ron? You'll die a horrid death? Well, guess what? I've been there, done that, mourned you and all, and still you're here, flesh and blood, and dammit. I want you to tell me now. What happened to you that night?"

Some time during my tirade I'd advanced toward him until we were nearly nose to nose. I hurt all over again, I was annoyed with his game of hide-and-seek information, and most of all I hungered for him. I yearned to pull back that hood and sink my fingers in his hair, and I was only now beginning to realise that I wanted to cry out in frustration, for nothing seemed to go right. I wasn't supposed to mourn him anymore, and yet on a basic level I mourned that we could never be the same as we'd been before; Ron wasn't supposed to be such a confusing puzzle; and I wasn't supposed to love him anymore. Harry and I…

Ah, you and Harry. Now what's to be so concerned about?

Because he was there for me.

Tears of frustration welled up in my eyes. It was Ron I'd wanted to comfort me. Ron I wanted to be there for me. Ron I'd envisioned a whole future with. I'd been an idealist, a romantic; when Ron "died" that night, I'd needed someone to convince me to go on. Harry hadn't been there at first, he'd had to heal by himself, but then he'd come back. I'd acted strong for his benefit, but we both knew that was all it had been: An act.

Ron seemed to sense everything at that moment. He hovered over me, nostrils flaring with suppressed emotion, and yet he stared dully at the paper now in his hand. And gave in, finally. "This did. The Brotherhood."

--------------------------------------------  
Author's Notes: Oooh, now that's a cliffhanger if I ever saw one cackles evilly By the way, is "evilly" even a word? Oh well. So, answer this for me: Can you say for sure you know what the Brotherhood is/does? I'd be curious to know what you guys think.

So, this being a Good Ship fic, what'd you think of that last scene? Are you annoyed this LONG CHAPTER only had minimal R/Hr? (laughing here)What about Harry and Ginny? What do you guys think is going on? Do you think they know Buchanan? Does Buchanan speak Gaelic? Who the hell is Aine? Honos? Do you like Tom? Miranda? I want to know ALL.

(I'm the type of person who questions everything in a story, dissects every detail to an inch of its life, which is why I adore shows like CSI and Criminal Minds, and suspense/mystery books)

So, what comes next? I... don't know yet. I mean, I've started writing the beginning of next chapter, and I've a general idea where I want to take it, but it's not fully planned. Keep your eyes peeled, though, next chap might very well be shorter than this mammoth ;)

P.S. I just realised my original formatting (with italics) isn't visible here. Wow, didn't see that before. I've been writing a whole story without internal thoughts italicised? Sheesh, mustn't read too well to some people.


	5. Straight Lines

Author's note: This has been a long time in coming. Although it doesn't beat chapter 3 for word count, between school and life and my fic Sinners it's been difficult to find time to write _and_ type this mammoth. So, now that school's over (hallelujah and I'm sure I'm making a few of you jealous ;) I have more time to dedicate to writing and all. I'm hoping that I can also focus a bit more on my original fics, which can be found under the same pseudonym at fictionpress(.com).

Just so you know, I'm past 40K with this story. Will I make it to 50K? Beyond? As far as I know, 80K is the minimum for a well-rounded novel with some publishers. Which is _very_ interesting.

Anyway, enjoy, and remember that reviews make us all happy.

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR : STRAIGHT LINES  
**

"Don't be so ridiculous. The Guardian Brotherhood doesn't exist." Whenever I couldn't quite grasp something on the first go, I paced. I was actually pacing a hole through the floor at that moment. Feeling my feet run cold. Hugging myself. Hands underneath my armpits. Denying it all. My God, I'd just learned the most interesting and exciting piece of magical mythology today. How was I expected to believe it was all true? It was all legends, bedtime stories, meant to be heard and taught to future generations. Not real. Couldn't be.

Silence met my denial. I whipped around, catching my breath when I saw the grim line of Ron's lips.

No, couldn't be.

"It's a myth!"

Quietly, he replied, "Not really." Then sighed, and came to me, taking my hand in his. For a long moment, he just gazed at our linked hands, stroking mine with a rough thumbpad, and nothing sounded in my ears but the beat of my heart. "That night," he reprised with a soft voice like gravel, "Ron Weasley died. No, let me explain," he cut in when I would have argued. "The Ron you knew died. I'll never go back, I'll never have the same life. I lost everything in order to become…" He raised bright blue eyes at me. Sad. Longing. "… this." And as though ashamed, he immediately looked away. "I would have died if not for the Brotherhood. But I can't go back to being… him again."

"You – you mean – you're a ghost?" Oh, my God. I went limp, barely able to stand. That made sense. It would explain his ability to Apparate anywhere. But then he squeezed my hand. That felt real. He was real.

His other hand came up, brushing a stray lock back. He was very real. I looked up. He smiled. "It's nothing like that, or I wouldn't be able to touch, would I?" His eyes softened as I leaned into his lingering hand.

"Definetely," I agreed in a sigh. The next instant was filled with him.

"I'm sorry," Ron muttered brokenly next to my mouth as he moved from cheek to lips. "You – I can't – anymore." He closed into me, warmth surrounding me everywhere, and suddenly I felt two heartbeats. Fingers burrowed into my nape, and moist softness pillowed against my lips. I yielded, recognising everything.

Yes, this was real. This was tangible. This was… better. I remembered good, but as Ron made a sound deep in his throat and pressed me harder against him so that I felt all the length of him, I didn't remember anything that had ever felt this… desperate. Moaning helplessly, I let him have free reign of my body, let him nuzzle my neck, palm my breast, push me against the wall and resume the thorough kissing.

Only to realise he hadn't yet told me anything relevant. "So…" I drew out between two kisses. "You want to tell me what –"

He thrust shallowly into my hip. Enough to make me lose my train of thought. My inner muscles clenched in response, wanting it all, needing him. "Not now, Hermione," he growled low, busy licking his way up my neck. I shivered.

Lucidity chose that moment to rear its big ugly head. "Wait. Ron. Stop."

He froze like me, then pulled away, panting. His hood had come off at some point, revealing brilliant, disheveled red hair, smoky depthless eyes, flushed cheeks. Merlin, he was the sexiest thing I'd ever seen.

I came forward, stroking his cheek and watched as his eyes closed. Just like that, he turned his head and kissed my open palm. "I can't do this," I breathed, and it was a wonder my voice didn't shatter.

Ron sighed, then pulled away from me, putting distance between us. "You're engaged," he said hollowly, matter-of-factly, and it was all I could do not to throw it all away just for him.

But Harry… I could never knowingly tear Harry's world apart one more time. He was… as happy as he could ever be. With a home, and someone to come home to. How could I take that away from him?

"Right," Ron said again, and turned away stiffly, hiding the resentment I'd caught in his eyes. It reminded me of how stupid I'd been to let him see how much I wanted him. "I've to… go." The air charged around him, and I instinctively knew he was leaving.

The next instant, I stood alone in my dark house, feeling empty and cold to the core. God, what had I done?

#

Ron didn't even light the room as he entered it, didn't even leave the door ajar to have a little light from the hall. Just sat on the hard bed and cursed. He hated himself, hated how he'd acted. _You're not an animal, for chrissakes_. But there it was, he felt like one. Felt like the biggest bastard on the planet. _You knew she was with him_. Yeah, and it was nothing sexual. God, he hoped not. If it was…

His hands shook. What was _wrong_ with him? It wasn't like he hated Harry. Didn't begrudge him anything. Jesus, he loved the bloke. Even if Harry and Hermione had sex on a regular basis, Ron couldn't do much of anything. _All because of a stupid rule_. But it couldn't stop him from feeling. And right now, without even knowing if the two of them were romantic or not, he just wanted to punch something 'til it bled three times over.

He shouldn't have gone to her that first night, shouldn't even have spelled out the Triquetra. But the temptation had been too great. He was a man, for God's sake. He couldn't believe any of the others hadn't ever gone to visit their pasts, but… whatever. He had. He hadn't been able to hold back. Seven years had changed Hermione so much, and that had been the point, hadn't it? That was why he'd had to see her again. She'd been crying, and he'd nearly broken. Seen her again. And again. Had relished the sight of her, the sound of her voice… everything. Liked to think she'd been what had kept him sane during those seven years of being stuck here.

Tonight, he'd gone way too far. Obsession didn't even begin to describe it. He'd wanted out of his cage, where he should have stayed in the first place. But now he was way out, way strung out. And that was bad.

"Have you the book?"

Damn, he hadn't even felt the door open. Whipped around to face the woman. Aine. Lowering his head, as was custom with the Circle of Elders, he replied, heart thumping wildly. "No."

Silence stretched, then she sighed almost imperceptibly. "You have failed in your duty, Honos. Whatever shall I do with you?"

#

Ginny watched Tom and Miranda off. The two of them were like cat and dog with each other, one all nice and cuddly, the other all bark and no nuzzling. In this rare case, Ginny preferred the cat to the dog.

Miranda waved as she Disapparated, and Ginny lifted her hand in response, a slight smile on her lips, then groaned aloud. Hopkins had caught her little hand movement and winked, probably thinking she'd been looking at him.

Turning away, she caught Harry's form passed out on her sofa, an arm over his eyes. He and Hopkins had trundled through her stash of mead and beer, leaving nothing behind. While Hopkins had been sober enough to walk in a straight line with his eyes closed, Ginny had deemed Harry way unable to Apparate, let along walk home alone. He wasn't drunk out of his wits, but tonight he'd just gone over his limit. So she'd take him. No big. She didn't live that far away anyway.

"Harry?" she murmured softly as she sat next to him, not wanting to startle him. The sofa dipped, and suddenly she was much closer than she'd planned.

His arm shot out to still her, groggy eyes staring down at her. "Hey," he said huskily, eyes slightly unfocused. "You okay?"

Scrambling, Ginny pulled away. "Yeah, um, you good enough to stand? We've got to get you home."

"Yeah." He groaned, rubbing his face, trying to shake the stupor. "Thanks for letting me crash, by the way."

"No problem. You're wiped out. We all are."

"That's no reason." Then he took a deep breath and braced himself to stand. "All right, let's go." He stood without much trouble, blinking away the buzz, then smiled crookedly. "See? I'm all right."

Ginny lifted a brow. "Until you're splinched," she said wryly. She took their jackets, clothed him then herself, and waited by the door. "Come on, out we go."

With a definetely childish roll of his eyes, he brushed by her. "You're such a pain. Wait 'til training tomorrow."

Keeping her eyes trained on the door as she lockd it, Ginny breathed in deep. Alcohol. Raw voice. Half-mast eyes. Long gait. Her hands shook as she handled the key-and-lock action. "You'll be too hungover to care."

"More reason to make you suffer. I'll want you to hurt like I do."

Ginny snorted. Hurt. What an understatement. She whirled when she was done, and stuck her hands in her pockets, matching his easy stride. The autumn night was cool, refreshing, and smelled of pines and wet earth. She normally loved it, loved midnight walks, but couldn't enjoy it fully tonight. Her skin itched.

"God, Ginny, I could have walked home alone," Harry whined. "I might splinch myself Apparating, but I'm not _that_ drunk."

His quiet liquor-induced drawl entered her system, jacking it on overdrive. She didn't want it. Couldn't help it. Hated the emptiness it left behind. Replied with her usual bite. "And have you miss your house? There may be only four on your street, but they all look the same."

"Except for the colour." He smiled cheekily at her, and even though she wasn't looking, she knew it with a certainty. "Mine's grey," he added as an afterthought.

Ginny stared hard at the asphalt below. "Yeah, well, it's dark. You could easily confuse them."

"You just want to see my room, don't you?"

That comment was so unexpected, Ginny stopped dead and stared at him in the dimness, heart going wild. Was that the alcohol talking? Or a joke? Or… something else? But as she saw his leery grin, she knew she had nothing to get excited about. The alcohol. Of course. "You are _so_ drunk. More than I thought."

"Admit it," he pressed on, jabbing her hip with his.

Ginny was really glad for the dark as she felt warmth flood her face. She rolled her eyes, saving face. "Right. Because?"

"Because I like getting you all hot and bothered," he said conversationally. "Kind of reminds me of your mum."

Ew. "Um, she's married. Happily." Ew.

A bark of laughter followed, and he zigzagged a bit afterward. She had to grab at his arm to steady him. Finally, he was able to reply, "Not like that, you sick wench. I meant in the sense that you take after her."

"Woohoo for the team," Ginny muttered wryly.

"Although…" He was thoughtful a moment, then continued more seriously, "You're softer when you want to be. Like now." He smiled down at her. "You indulge me. That's good."

"Consider yourself lucky, then. I only indulge you now because I know you won't remember a thing tomorrow. No point wasting good hot temper," she replied, then stopped when he did. And looked up into his face.

He growled low, pressing her to him roughly. "I _will_ remember tonight tomorrow."

Ginny hissed as she made contact with his warm/cool body, but remained rigid in his arms, refusing to meet his probing eyes. Waiting. Wondering.

Harry was staring, frowning, just as rigid, as though confused how she got to be in his arms. For a long moment that could have been short, they stayed locked like that, unmoving, then Harry let her go with a quietly insistent, "I'll remember." They started walking again, side by side, far enough away from each other so as to not touch.

Minutes later, after crossing numerous streets and an unlit park, Ginny glimpsed Harry's house. "Well, here you go," she broke the silence with an awkward flourish. "Home safe."

Harry looked up. "Yeah…" He turned to her, not quite meeting her eyes. "Listen, we'll talk about Whitney's memory tomorrow."

She nodded. "Sure. Night, then." Ginny turned to go, only to be held back. With a little shocked gasp she looked up from Harry's hand on her arm as he brushed a thumb over her cheek with a crooked half smile. She held her breath, clenching all over.

"Night," he only said, and released her, his slow gait a sad thing to behild as he walked away.

Waiting until he'd got in safe, Ginny walked off like an automaton, needing the cool air instead of a quick Apparation.

#

It was a long time before I finally decided to forget about today, tonight, and everything that involved the Guardian Brotherhood. Easier said than done. I found out to my dismay that my treacherous mind simply refused to forget anything that involved Ron, which… according to my power of deduction, was all of the above. Ron had saved and sent me Bert Clarke, who owned the book _Mysterious Magical Orders_, which contained the prophecy regarding the Guardian Brotherhood, of which Ron was a member. Or something.

I still didn't know what he was – _how_ he got past Harry's wards and could wield magic strong enough to produce the Triquetra by himself was what I was wondering more than anything. If that sort of magic existed… A shot of thrill went down my spine. That was exciting on so many academic levels.

But the first order of business was, was his magical baggage part of the Brotherhood heritage? Oh, what did he do? I thought back to the legend of the Brotherhood that Clarke had told me that very afternoon. References to Odin, Valhalla, fallen warriors, a hidden realm on Earth –

Fallen warriors. I sat down hard, realising I'd been pacing again, and had walked right into the bedroom. Thankfully I'd sat down on the bed, feeling nothing as I hit it hard. Fallen warriors. Now, why did that term strike me so hard? _That night, Ron Weasley died… I'll never go back… I would have died if not for the Brotherhood… I lost everything…_

But he was real, opaque, tangible, so very Ron. No ghost. So, what? What was he? He hadn't wanted to tell me. Why?

Fallen warriors. Valhalla, warriors' heaven. Odin, Norse god of war. Part of the Guardian Brotherhood's prophecy.

Heaven. On Earth. Heaven. Haven? As in undead? Living?

Fallen warriors, I thought again, does not mean dead. _I would have died_. Injured warriors?

Odin, I thought next. He selected his favoured fallen warriors. The strongest. I thought of the prophecy, made for a secret wizarding order. That selected the strongest wizards?

Injured warriors. Who proved their worth in battle? I thought of Ron during the war. I hadn't paid any attention to him during the Last Battle, as I'd been too busy myself, but he'd certainly been one of their best assets overall throughout the war.

Ron. Injured warrior. Strong, worthy warrior. But how strong? Magically. Triquetra. Anti-Apparation wards. My breath caught in my throat. I was close, I could sense it. The fire in Clarke's department; me fainting as I felt for the residue.

Ron was way off-the-radar strong. I'd never felt magical residue – which was supposed to dilute over time – that strong in my entire life. Let alone felt actual real-time magical power waves that potent.

Strong, worthy warriors. Guardian Brotherhood. Wizarding order. Lost prophecy. Lost memory. Secret. Why secret? What did they guard? Or who? From whom?

Harry walked into the room then, making me jump and lose my train of thought instantly. "Ah! When did you get here?"

Without looking my way, he just flopped onto the bed, clothes and all. "Just now. God, this was a crapper fodder day."

_You don't say_. Putting my thoughts of the Brotherhood aside, I turned to half face him. "How was work?"

"School. Work. Ah, both." He began working on his shirt button, but seemed to have thumbs instead of fingers. Frustrated, he just flopped back down and threw an arm over his eyes.

"Are you okay?" I asked, a touch concerned. Nothing got to Harry. Everyday was just work as usual, none worse or better than the other. He was a damn inspiration.

"Drank a bit."

"You Apparated?" Now that worried me, considering his appearance now.

He shook his head. "Walked. Look, could we just not talk about it? I want to sleep." He rolled over, shirt, trousers and all, tugged the sheet over himslf, and ignored me.

_Okay…_ What had crawled up his arse? I caught a whiff of alcohol in the air. Beer. "You drank," I stated more than questioned or accused. Well, that explained the mood, although… he drank fairly often and never got drunk or mean. The man was a beer trough. So what was his deal?

"I'm really not in the mood for a lesson in morals or whatever."

"Talk to me," I said, crawling to my side of the bed and getting in. "There's got to be something bothering you."

"Hermione," he groaned, muffled by his pillow. "For God's sake, just leave it alone and go to sleep. I already feel like shit, don't lord it over me."

Frowning, I wanted to reach out, but reckoned that's feel weirder than ever – we never touched it bed. And as I realised that, I felt even guiltier than I already did about this evening.

God. Ron. And just like that, my body heated as if in remembrance, yearning, wanting a touch that wasn't there. Too long ago, I'd lost hope that I'd ever feel alive again after losing him. It seemed my body had awakened after those long years, and just a memory of those hands of his on me could arouse it. Clamping down on the ache, I turned over and shut the light.

I wasn't being fair to Harry. He deserved to know Ron was alive. Yet… that would be betraying Ron. he'd asked me – demanded, really – not to say a word. It irked me a bit that I could still be so weak when it ame to Ron. But then again, I'd always been. It was a lifelong staple of mine: stick by Ron, always. But why the secrecy? Didn't he trust Harry?

_You know I can't tell you… Shite, you're not supposed to have this._ He'd been wary the whole time he was with me. That was why. He hadn't even planned on telling _me_ he existed. He hadn't planned on telling me about the Brotherhood or _anything_.

Secret… I thought back to before Harry had interrupted my mental gymnastics. What did they guard? Whom? Ron had evaded, almost been sad that he couldn't – wouldn't – tell me. A chill shot down my spine. Dangerous. It had to be a dangerous duty. The fire in Clarke's office. Who had started it? Had Ron been the instigator? No, that didn't make sense, he'd protected Clarke; the mark told its story. What about Clarke's assistants? Had they been too far? Had he come too late? How had he known to come?

I squeezed my eyes shut, engrossed in processing half informations, then froze in place.

The book. Ron guarded the book.

#

Harry couldn't sleep. No matter how many deep breaths he took to calm his mind, no matter how many sheep he counted or how much he counted on the alcohol to truly kick in, nothing worked. And he was tired. Go figure. His back was ramrod straight, his chest felt tight, and he felt disgusted with himself. Jesus. Hermione.

No, they weren't intimate, but he'd made a damn promise to Ron's memory that night seven years ago. Like hell he'd leave Hermione alone. So he hadn't been there for moths at first. He'd come back, been there for her. Been her rock. He'd one a fine job of it, too. They were engaged. Lived together. Loved each other.

As friends. And they both knew it. But still he knew one day that wouldn't be enough.

That day had come, he thought wryly, a long time ago. Only, he'd thought he was stronger, could ignore it. It wasn't like you chose who hit the bull's eye. Even so, he couldn't ignore his promise to Ron. The thought that his friend might be alive after all was just the icing on the cake. No, he couldn't give up yet. Hermione deserved someone to take care of her, and that person was Harry for the time being. Maybe for the rest of his life. But she was worth it, if it ever came to that, because each day that brought a smile to her face was definetely an energy booster. The tought that Ron would want to be there was enough to keep him going as far as he needed to go.

So maybe he was a sap. Ron and Hermione's had been a genuine kind of love. No artifice. Sure they'd always bickered, but then what couple didn't? And Harry had always known it was much more than just annoyance. The war had brought them closer than they'd ever expected, and that had been true beauty.

Harry had been secretly jealous back then. There they were, the two of them, having finally found their ways to each other's bickering mouths, and Harry had just lost the best damn person in his life a few months ago for "noble reasons". It was enough to drive anyone up the wall. And then, just like that, Hermione had lost Ron. That taught Harry how unfair life was in any case. Just because he was the bloody Boy Who Lived didn't mean no one else lost loved ones. That taught him true humility.

And, once more, he'd sacrificed himself. He owed it to Ron. He'd protect Hermione. Besides, he didn't know how he'd react if he lost her, too.

_How many sacrifices would be enough?_ he wondered silently in the dead of night, staring hard at the darkened ceiling. Mentally shaking a fist at the invisible God beyond.

Regardless, he wouldn't give up, but it damn near killed him everyday.

Harry remembered when Ginny had first been assigned to him. The fear of the past. The need to refuse at the risk of being thrown out. Only the thought that she'd simply be reassigned to someone else else had stopped him. Hell, Hopkins was an all-around great guy, but he'd have been forced to feed him his own balls if he'd so much as touched Ginny the wrong way. Which happened to Harry on a fairly regular basis during grappling sessions or such. You did not choke someone unless they were trapped well between your legs. On top or under did not matter.

He often found himself letting her trap him, just for sportsmanship's sake. He couldn't very well always overpower her. She needed to learn, too. Although ground grappling was her forte and they both knew it. Those legs of hers were strong. She had good overall balance, never let air in between their bodies. If she did, he found the spot and then she felt sorry. _His_ forte was armlocks, but she never felt the full force of his strength. There was a word for those who used sheer brutal force: brutes.

No, he went slowly with her, knowing she'd eventually escape the lock, crawl her way out of his hold and then flip him over.

He loved it, loved knowing she matched him so perfectly. If not with armlocks of her own, then with different techniques that she excelled at. Standing, she was a killer with hip techniques. She'd made him appreciate the art of action-reaction in judo more than his own teachers ever had. The "way of gentleness" indeed. Ginny was fluid, never made him hurt as he hit the _tatami_. In fact, they nearly always stuck with judo these days. It brought their bodies together in harmony better than boxing or taekwondo ever could. They got used to each other's bodies, slowly.

He knew she should get used to sparring with other partners. Bigger or smaller, it didn't matter, for one's power resided in one's technique. She _should_ get used to other bodies, but his mind refused to even think about it. Refused to think of her with another man. And most women at Syn Wyngyn went with tai chi, preferring the slow, precise art to the full on kicking or throwing that left bruises behind on occasion. The exercise was always good for them in the end, in any case. So judo with others was mainly out of the question. And he knew how selfish he sounded. But thoughts of Hopkins with Ginny always freaked him out.

Besides, Harry liked the intimacy they shared. After so many years of feeling like a dog for letting her go, they were finally reconnecting. What better way to get to know someone again than through martial arts? You learned to expect the other's favourite moves. You learned how they thought. You learned how they smelled – how they truly smelled. How your bodies fit together. You didn't need the sense of sight anymore. Just touch.

Harry's body burned just thinking about it. About Ginny in her white _gi_ and _zubon_, bowing to him and then standing ready for anything like the warrior she was. Letting him approach her, then calculating how she could counter his first move and bring him down.

But despite all that closeness, she was still constantly wary around him. Oh, he understood her need for emotional distance: he'd once been a complete dog, he could very well be one again. Hell, hadn't he almost refused to tutor her? But wasn't he sticking by her side this time?

Merlin, he wanted her.

_Whoa_. That was probably all the alcohol talking, because he couldn't have her. Couldn't want her. Hadn't he learned his lesson? Sacrifices, that's what he was good for. Besides, she couldn't want him after all that.

Gosh, he was so tired. Couldn't sleep. Kept replaying the day in his mind's eye. Dinner. Walking home. Touching her for the first truly intimate touch in… seven years. She was soft, creamy… _And bitter._

Harry clamped down on the memories and his raw emotions.

No, she didn't want him.

#

I was woken the next day by something sneaking behind me under the covers. Warmth seeped into me, enveloping, gliding over everything it found. It was… delicious. "Ron," I murmured, half asleep, cocooning deeper into the definetely male body.

Something was off, though I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Maybe I was late for work. I groaned. I really didn't want to check the time. Heck, I'd give anything to be able to stay and feel Ron's hands on me, his broad, hard body on me and in me. I moaned as he found my hips and slid inside onto the nook of my legs. A sweet ache began deep inside me, starting at my hot core and spreading. Slowly, decadently, it reached my heart, and it was all I could do not to cry.

God, yes, Ron, finally. Pressure built into me until I was no more than flesh and bones, craving his own flesh and bones. He pressed down and I rolled toward him, wanting more, uncaring that I was only half-awake. I needed him.

With a grunt he crawled onto me, leaving no inch of my body untouched. Grasping his neck, I pulled him down even closer, anticipating the moment when our lips would meet.

And that was when the fog lifted. Short-clipped hair. Bolting upright, I screamed and Harry tensed, jerking way back. We both stared, panting. Self-consciously, I pulled the hem of my nightgown down over my bare legs. And stared some more.

Harry cleared his throat a number of times before his voice caught on. "Hermione I – I'm so sorry. I have no idea what –" Taking a deep breath, he rubbed his face and groaned. "I didn't mean to do that."

"I –" I swallowed. Shit. Buggerfuck. What the hell. "Me neither."

And that was when my alarm truly did go off. Harry glanced over, cursing. "I'm late." He practically tore out of the room like his pants were on fire, grabbing a random shirt from the back of a chair. I was suddenly left to wonder what had just happened.

Holy hell, I'd almost had sex with Harry.

#

Harry nearly splinched himself thinking too much, too hard, as he Apparated to Syn Wyngyn's Entrance Hall. Ginny was waiting for him nearby with a little smug smile on her face. _Yeah, hello migraine_. He must have looked a sight with his rumpled clothes and a t-shirt in hand, but his looks couldn't be helped. Neither could his nerves.

Shit, he'd almost slept with Hermione. Thinking of… well, he wouldn't remind himself, especially as Ginny walked toward him. _Sashaying_ would be more like it. Ah, damn, there he went, seeing sex everywhere. He hoped whatever he had wasn't permanent because his nerves sure wouldn't hold up. He wasn't so sure about other things. With Ginny in sight, anything was possible. When had he last had sex? Yeah, that was probably it. His cock was in serious withdrawal.

"Hey," Ginny said as she neared him. "I actually wasn't expecting you this morning. I was about to go in alone."

Harry stuck his hands in his pockets, shirt and all. "Told you I'd give you hell," he grunted. He sounded hoarse. Yeah, near-sex with your platonic best friend would about do it.

"So what's on the menu?" she asked as they started walking toward the main building.

Harry had to remind himself she wasn't speaking literally. He tried to smile. "Thirty laps, benchpress, Cursing, and maybe ground grappling? Then we can talk about Whitney. What do you say?"

Her eyes were round as saucers as she halted, whistling low. "I say I'll be dead for Muggle Integration and Association later."

Shrugging, he grinned at her surprise. "Speaking of, I looked over your scores last week. You're doing well in that class. So… the body can be present save for the mind, if you know what I mean…"

Ginny mock-gasped, but he was sure there was a little bit of genuine surprise in it. "Are you suggesting I sleep in class?"

"With your eyes open, basically."

Ginny laughed out loud. "You're something else, you know?"

Grinning, he looked up as they approached the gymnasium. "I try. Here we go." Without a word she set her book and sports bags down near the door and set off jogging at an easy pace. He watched her progress through the empty, echoing gym with half a mind. The other was entirely on her.

Her long red hair was bound low at her neck, but the waves shimmered and few about with every stride she took. Her slim, long body was bent dynamically. The only parts of her that truly moved were her arms and legs. The rest economised movement. As she jogged close, he heard her deep, even breaths. How many was it? Five. Five laps.

Later, Harry cursed himself even as the air whooshed out of him. "_Whuh!_ God," he groaned, twisting his body to flip her. He only succeeded in cracking his back. "You packed on the pounds last night, didn't you."

Ginny sent him a glare, pressing down harder 'til he could barely breathe. "Did not. You're just a wimp."

Despite his bad predicament, Harry couldn't help but laugh. Here he was, trapped under her, sweat flowing like a fountain from his face and hair, and he was a wimp? For one split moment, Ginny glanced down and smiled. Aha. Aiming for a bit more leeway between their bodies, he pulled his arms and legs in like a ball and then jacknifed to the side, bringing her with him. He sat on her, pinning her hands with his. "Wimp, huh?" A drop of his sweat fell down and landed on her _gi_, drenching it in the one spot.

Her grin never wavered. "How about formerly hungover? Congratulations, Mr Potter, you've kicked it to the curb. Or was that just luck."

Feeling juvenile, Harry stuck out his tongue. Yes, it felt good to let loose after the weirdness that had been his morning.

"Do you plan on doing _randoris_ all morning?" Ginny suddenly asked, looking incongruous as heck all trapped and feisty under him.

Slowly, delicately, Harry released her wrists and then unstraddled her legs, waiting to bow with her, as Japanese custom demanded. Then they sat facing each other. "All right. Whitney. What do we know from him?" he asked, getting into teacher mode.

Ginny, at a loss, shook her head. "Just… poof. How do you poof like that anyway? It's not like he was hit with anything at that particular moment. And his wand fell from his hands when he fell. I saw that clearly." She fell silent, introspecting, then looked up, eyes as vulnerable as they'd ever been. "Mum had it framed," she said quietly.

Silence filled the gym again as Harry debated whether he should take her in his arms and soothe her. It was obvious the memory pained her. Then he cleared his throat. No, he definetely shouldn't. Sacrifices… he'd made sacrifices long ago. "I dunno, but I did pick up something strange at the battle site the other day." Stroking his chin, a theory formed in his mind, getting clearer. "It seemed so strange, too. I couldn't recognise the spell, but it must have been the one that made him disappear."

"So we're clear he didn't Disapparate?" she asked with a wobbly voice, probably remembering their spat at Spinner's End.

Harry rubbed a hand over his face, inhaling deep and keeping it in. With a curse, he released it. "Yeah. Apparating leaves a subtle trace behind. What I felt there was like a truckload of magic without a definite source." He knew what she was probably thinking: _you asshole, you deliberately riled me up back there_. "I just… wasn't sure," he said apologetically.

She seemed to accept his excuse. "Now?"

"Going by Whitney's memory, Ron couldn't have Disapparated. He was nearly unconscious," he pointed out.

She nodded thoughtfully, then frowned after a moment. "Something you said is bugging me." She lifted her face. "'A truckload of magic.' Are you sure it wasn't separate spells that all landed in the same spot?"

Harry shook his head. "No. It's very definetely one and the same, and yet not."

"What if it was an amalgam of spells? A mix. Could that happen?"

Harry's eyebrows shot into his hairline. "You'd have to be pretty damn powerful to execute one concentrated spell. I don't think even Dumbledore would have been able to perform so much magic at once."

"But you're positive there's only one spellcaster… Listen, is it possible to dissect the trace?"

"I don't…" Harry started, but one glance into Ginny's face and he was done in. "Oh, all right," he sighed. "But I don't know if that's possible."

Ginny shot him a winning smile. "I'm with the all-powerful Harry Potter. Of course it's possible."

Her faith in him nearly bowled him over.

#

I appeared at work with frayed nerves, opting for the car, though it was potentially dangerous in my condition, in case I killed myself trying to Apparate. The odds weren't that much greater, but one could never be too careful, and I did have to work.

As I walked by Clara's desk in the reception, she murmured into the phone and then covered the mouthpiece with a well-manicured hand. Her eyes were round in shock, wild. "Auror Randall is on the phone, asking for you. Says it's urgent."

Now that was strange. It was no secret that the magical community did not like phones; only my muggle clients used them when communicating with me. And the fact that it was an Auror requesting me was even more bewildering: the Ministry used flying notes to communicate between departments, so this must be urgent indeed. I nodded to my office. "I'll take it in there, thanks."

Settling my things in their usual place in my office, I then sat, frowned, and picked up the receiver. "Good morning, Auror Randall. How may I help you?"

There were sounds behind him as though he were in a public place. He spoke up, but not like someone who had no idea that I could hear him perfectly over long distances. Muggleborn, I decided idly. "There was an incident at the historian's research centre."

It was said with such a detached tone that his words didn't immediately register. Then, "Oh my God, is Mr Clarke okay? What happened?"

"He's alive," he summed up succinctly. _He's alive?_ I thought, thinking that was way inappropriate. God, that could imply anything. "He requested his lawyer, doesn't want to speak to anyone else. He, er… he's not in good shape."

I wondered how I'd got off my chair. "I'm coming right over." And prayed to God it couldn't be as bad as I pictured.

#

I was. It wasn't as messy as the fire had been, but the blood… oh God, the blood. I comforted myself in the conviction that this would be my first and last criminal case. Good God, who could thrive on this?

Clarke had been stabilised by the time I got there, but he was still painfully weak. I looked at his ravaged face and felt every blow, every pierced or raised piece of flesh. Everything was red and raw whether by the punches or coloured by his own blood. His clothes, so immaculate usually, were by contrast torn or shredded, showing flesh just as battered underneath. Was there anything that hadn't been done to him? But still he told his tale, voice husky from screaming, no doubt.

"Couldn't see…"

"We found him bound hands and eyes," a Healer spoke as he tended to Clarke. I nodded wordlessly and turned back to Clarke.

"Wand in… pocket… closet. Couldn't do anything… couldn't defend." He took a deep breath. "Put in chair. Demanded prophecy." He looked up imploringly. "Didn't. Tortured. Angry. Didn't want say where. Scared."

"Thank you," I cut in softly, closing my eyes against what I saw when I looked at him. More of this and I would surely crack. How he'd remained strong through it all was a wonder. Standing, I watched the Healer Levitate Clarke's pallet with a heavy heart.

"He'll live," the Healer said, his hand resting on my shoulder.

Yes, but for how long? Someone wanted to know what the prophecy said so bad, they'd go to any lengths to know what it contained.

That gave me pause. Could Buchanan…? No. Though I did not know anything about what Syn Wyngyn did, Harry or Ginny would never torture for information. But could I be sure that Buchanan was Syn Wyngyn? In the words of Ron: _humour me_. Yet he'd done nothing but be an asshole to me, which didn't qualify as anything at all. So I was back to square one on that.

Thinking, thinking, thinking.

"Are you going to prosecute?" an Auror – Randall, by his voice – asked.

"Who? There's no suspect. But I'm going to be staying here a bit longer, if that's okay. I'd like to understand what happened here," I said, feeling strange vibes around me as I stepped closer to where Clarke had lain. Small steps. Sweat bloomed over me.

He shrugged. "Suit yourself. I'm leaving an Auror outside just in case. Let him know when you leave."

Yes, I felt like the whole place was dangerous now. "Thanks." He left, and I was finally alone to carefully roam, avoiding as many puddles as I could. When I got too close to the biggest puddle, I chickened out.

Someone should have stopped this half-assed carnage. Ron. Where had he been when all this happened? Shouldn't he have stopped this, protected Clarke? _Why didn't you come? Or were you too preoccupied looking for the book that you couldn't come here and pull Bert out? Do you have so little heart?_ Right then I… hated, yes, hated Ron.

"There was a lot of violence here."

The voice nearly made me jump out of my skin. Whirling around, I suddenly faced Buchanan leaning in the doorway, surveying the scene. "What are you doing here?"

His gaze met mine. "Same as you. Looking."

I narrowed my eyes into slits. "What did the Auror say?"

"Which Auror?" Comprehension dawned. "Ah, the one they left up front, right?" He shrugged nonchalantly. "Didn't see him. Didn't see me. So what are you doing here?" he asked, raising a brow.

Being pegged by his dark eyes was disconcerting; I found myself instinctively backing away. "I can…" I lurched, having backed away so much that I'd landed right next to the bloody spot where Clarke had lain. "Oh, God." I reeled, nauseous.

Buchanan's arms shot out, pulling me upright again, holding fast. "Careful."

Well, wasn't this strange. How could someone sound so caring under a thick layer of menace? His words seemed distorted and out of place as I analysed his tone. "Thanks. I…"

"Almost fainted, like the first time we met. Only, last time there wasn't any blood." Again, he pegged me with a hard, calculating stare, and I felt naked under his scrutiny, like he already knew everything there was to me just by staring hard enough. Absurd.

"Yes, I almost fainted. Please let me go." He slowly released my wrist, but his eyes became shrewder. A strange hum was in the air, a bi like when magic began mounting, uncurling from someone's being, preparing to be shot out. Only, it was clear that nothing was going to be spelled. My senses flared nonetheless, searching, wondering.

"Tell me something, Miss Granger. What happened here?"

I swallowed. He knew… I didn't know how he did, but he knew.

"I would even go so far as to think you speak Gaelic. Am I wrong? Such a little know-it-all…"

Oh God… No…

He got in my face, all the harsh planes of his face thrown into sharp relief. "Tell me. Tell me you don't know what I'm talking about. Tell me and I'll leave you alone."

I stood transfixed by his wild eyes, knowing I should Disapparate, go to some huge crowded place where he couldn't touch me, but unable to concentrate. "I don't –"

"Bullshit," he growled. "No wonder you're a lawyer. Although… how you passed your Bar with such a piss-poor poker face, I don't know." He was becoming more frightening by the instant, and I feared what he might do to me. What he had done to Mr Clarke. "_Tell me what you know!_"

"You're scaring me."

He reeled back, smirking. "Now that's the truth. Good for you. Now what happened here? Tell me." He was in my face again, invading my personal space, stealing what little strength I had.

Breathing hard, I stuttered. "I told you. Violence. It's obvious. Ah!" I grimaced as he gripped my wrist like a manacle, tightening his hold. "H – he was drained with magic!"

Releasing my wrist, he became dead calm. "How do you know?"

Nursing my wrist, I replied, "I can f – feel magical strength in p – people and places."

Buchanan nodded, as if he'd come to that conclusion himself, and then smiled. I recoiled, anticipating anything. "You could be useful, actually."

I hunched, trying to make myself appear as small as possible. "Please don't hurt me."

Glancing at my reddened wrist where he'd gripped me, he seemed contrite for an instant. "Sorry." Then he reached inside his pocket, retrieving a folded piece of paper. I squinted. The original prophecy. I felt too weak to care that he'd profaned a very precious piece of history. "Now translate."

I looked up, bewildered. "Y – you don't speak Gaelic?" Ron was wrong, after all. But possibilities had never hurt.

Buchanan grimaced, annoyed, but put the parchment in my face. "Translate," he ordered roughly.

Swallowing thickly, I slowly began translating the words before me out of rote.

"_The Oldest Prophecy._

_A legend, older than wizardry itself  
Tells that the Brotherhood of Guardians  
Will prosper for one thousand years, teaching  
Their brethren to serve the greater good._

The Circle of Elders warns that a rogue cohort  
Shall pursue the Brotherhood on a wind of betrayal  
And cast it and its legendary warriors into darkness.

_But fear not despair, children of Odin,  
For the one _–"

I was cut mid-sentence by a resounding blast that shook and blew me away. A magic… that… was… too strong. Before I even knew it, my legs crumpled under me and I fainted, nauseous, unable to bear the force of the wave that hit me.

#

Spinner's End rested in deathly silence as always, ruins and debris like it had been left seven years ago. An eerie chill settled onto Harry and Ginny as they set down to work on the long-ago traces where Ron had once fallen.

"What are you doing?" Ginny whispered when Harry circled his wand over and over in a precise figure-8 shape. She did not recognise the spell he was using.

"Separating the spells. _Singulus spell_. Thing is, Apparating doesn't require a spell to be performed, so I'm trying to sort out what spells came into play here so we can figure if maybe it was a Vanishing Spell or something." His face scrunched up as he concentrated on what he saw. "The usual. Unforgiveables, Disarming Spells. A few Shields – Ron's of course."

Ginny sat back, frowning. "What I can't figure out is why no one tried what we're doing here before."

Glancing back, Harry worked to keep his concentration as he spoke to explain. "The spell was recently created, and isn't widespread. I don't think even the Ministry knows about it yet."

Ginny smiled, and it warmed Harry on an already warm day. "Then I'm glad you know what you're doing," she said, laying a hand on his flexed arm.

He froze, the figure-8 forgotten. Then he jerked as he lost the flow of spell traces that had been coming at him. "Oh, damn!"

"Can I try?" Ginny asked before Harry could take up the spell again.

"Sure… here," Harry said as he positioned Ginny's wand right over the spot. "Focus on the layers, study them one by one. Now say _Singulus spell_."

She tried, successfully.

"Awesome. Now let them come to you. Slowly. Take your time to learn the magic underneath."

Ginny's eyes widened, amazed at what she could do. "Wow. I feel I can almost touch them."

Harry nodded absently, watching her every move, itching to touch her and reposition her just to have an excuse to feel her on him. He remained quite firmly planted where he was, though. She was doing fine. "Now separate them with your mind. Go on."

She grinned triumphantly. "It's amazing! I can tell them apart."

Harry sat back, enjoying the view of Ginny so happy and relaxed. "What do you see?"

Ginny's brow furrowed as her mind isolated the spells apart. "I see… an Impendimenta. A Freezing hex. A Shield. All Ron's. God, there's a lot. A Slash…" She froze, eyes unfocusing. "Harry, I'm not feeling so good."

Harry bounded forward, catching her against him. The first time was always overwhelming. The mind had to get used to so much high-octane concentration. He took her wand hand in his, continuing the figure-8 she'd nearly abandoned. "We'll do it together. Come on, _Singulus spell_."

Together they felt the dense wave hit and reeled from the darkly veiled invasion. This one was intense, potent. Harry fought to keep the connection even as Ginny swayed and burrowed deep into his shirt. He felt sick, too, felt the bile rise into his throat, his stomach churning with Ginny's. This was an unnatural bit of magic, but still he fough to recognise and name the spell, because it _was_ a spell, he was sure of it.

Ginny moaned low, clutching weakly at him. "No name, Harry, not spell," she slurred feebly.

He shook his head, gritting his teeth together. "Got to be."

"Let it go, please. Let it… go."

It was only then, only when she suddenly pitched forward, boneless against him, that Harry snapped out of the connection. A flush of dread washed over him. "Gin?" he asked, growing cold. "Ginny!" Fear grew tendril-like within him, and his breath left him in short rushes. He recognised his reaction: shock. "Oh, God. Oh, shite. Dammit, fuck."

Harry slowly lowered her body to the gound, fretting over her. He listened closely for her breath, and sighed in relief when a puff stirred his hair. Straightening, he brushed her long hair away from her face gently. For a few instants he only waited for her to come around. Peace.

After a time, she stirred, eyes cracking open a little. "Thought you'd lost me?" came her weak jibe.

Harry's laugh lodged into his throat as he squeezed her hand. "You have no idea. I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have done that."

Smiling privately, she suddenly grew serious and nudged him hard. "It was no spell, you idiot."

"What…?"

"I'm thinking about our Syn Wyngyn talismans. Permanent spells. Traceless, but magically potent anywhere on Earth."

Harry frowned. "Makes sense. But those are rare. And this one was out of this world, too. I couldn't even see the end of it."

Ginny squeezed his hand. "So what are you saying?" But she thought she already knew the answer, and it scared her.

Harry shook his head slowly, shrugging wearily. "I don't know."

#

I came awake suddenly, jolting from head to foot. The first thing I registered was that the bile that I rised before was either fully prepared for launch or stuck in stasis. I couldn't make up my mind about its status. Neither could it, it seemed.

The second thing I registered was Ron. Bleeding, black and blue all over, wild eyed, his face was inches from mine, though turned in the direction of a series of shouts. Spells. Through blurry eyes I saw Buchanan crouching, face contorted in pain, holding his own against the nauseating force that was Ron's retaliations. Exhaustion was evident in both men's bodies. I had evidently been out of it for a while.

And for reason. The rawest sort of magic, the likes of which I'd never encountered, was coursing between them. Ron, in exertion, shook like a leaf at the onslaught, but protected us powerfully. Suddenly he glanced down at me. His eyes gleamed as if in fever. "Are you okay?"

I tried my mouth, my vocal chord, but both of them were paper-dry. In answer, I tried to nod, but found that made everything swirl. I moaned instead. My God, my head…

Ron's nostrils flared. In one quick surge he passed a hand beneath my neck and pulled me up to him, then winced as one of Buchanan's spells hit his side. A Burning hex. "Hold on," he said through gritted teeth, and resumed attacking. Buchanan meant business, if his own attack meant anything.

I tried hugging Ron close so he wouldn't have to juggle so much between supporting me and fighting Buchanan, but my muscles were like jello, quivering, strengthless. "Ron, please…" I breathed. I didn't know what I wanted. Safety? Going away? Merlin, I couldn't even keep up with them. Their hands were blurs of movements and I was suddenly very glad that I wasn't alone with Buchanan anymore. There was too much I'd undermined about him.

Ron turned me toward him all of a sudden, and I saw his fevered eyes, his battered face, and his matted hair again before we lurched through unknown space and nothingness. Ron hugged me close through this as I cried against him, the magic strong, too strong. I wanted away from him, close to him until I couldn't breathe.

We soon reappeared in a dark bedroom with no windows and one door. His room. I knew it as surely as I knew Ron, even though there was nothing determining in it. The walls were bare, the furniture minimal. No colour, no warmth permeated the four walls but the scent that was entirely his. Pinewood and licorice. Him.

Ron held me loosely as I dry-retched. Murmuring soft words, he brushed my hair off my face, then deposited me gently on the bed. Only then did he drop down bonelessly next to me, the bed groaning and dipping under his weight. The entire bed shook with him, and though I hated how his power made me feel on a basic level, I crawled into him, needing his touch as surely as I needed air to breathe in this moment. I sensed his need of my touch as well, silent and undemanding, but unediably _needing_. I gave him my all.

After a few moments I realised that I was shaking just as bad. Adrenaline overload, I reasoned. Normal. "Oh God, oh God, oh God."

Ron shivered uncontrollably in my arms and seemed to burrow closer still despite his next words. "You shouldn't be touching me. I could hurt you."

"Nonsense." I felt my head shaking, my mind refusing to let go. "I need you…" Hugging him close, I felt him flinch and hiss, and remembered the bruises on his face. Was his whole body…? I wiped some drying blood off his brow. "What happened to you? Did Buchanan do this?" I'd been so out of it back there, I couldn't remember if he'd come bruised or not.

Ron froze, a few shivers still racking his body. Silence filled the room as he seemed to collect a careful answer for me. I held my breath, anticipating… the worst. "I needed to bring back the book. I didn't."

Instantly outraged, I pulled away, crying out, "You were tortured?" By his peers? By the Brotherhood? Instantly I began frantically tearing at his clothes, wanting to see the extent of the damage and what could be done immediately. I already hated the ones who'd hurt him.

Ron stopped me, holding my wrists like manacles over my head, groaning and wincing as he overpowered me, tackled me. "Leave it. I'll get the book. Somehow."

_And kill yourself in the process?_ I wanted to yell. But, instead, I squirmed under him, trying to get him off me. He held fast. "It's gone," I said. "He has it. Buchanan. The man you just… I gave it to him yesterday. I thought…" I couldn't help it, I shivered once more. Tears pooled into my eyes and I had to swallow hard to keep them right where they wouldn't embarrass me. My throat burned. I would _not_ remember what had just happened. "I never thought he was…"

"Shh…" Ron's voice was soothing against my ear, his body a warm anchor as he held me. "He'll never touch you again. I promise." And with that, he caught my lips in a searing kiss that made my whole being hurt with yearning.

Slowly, he released my wrists and cradled my head, his hot breath fanning over my face. Through the darkness I made out his wide eyes, the fear in them despite his assurance. "Merlin… The thought of that bastard touching you, hurting you…" His voice cracked at the last, and I reached up to stroke his cheek. "I dunno what I'd have done if –"

"He didn't," I said, pressing my lips to his. A thought occured to me as I pulled back. "How did you know I was with him?"

He smiled a bit wryly to himself. "I always know where you are."

"You make it sound like that's horrible." It stung, actually.

"It is when I can't be there." He frowned. "It's like displacement."

That feeling I could understand. The past haunted me. Realisation dawned on me at the same moment. "In my loo. You did it then." With one touch, he'd placed a homing spell on me and could find me anywhere. Brilliant.

Ron nodded. "I wanted to keep you safe in case things turned to vinegar. Just in case. I shouldn't have, but…"

I reached up to kiss him soundly. "Shut up. Thank you." Although I'd annoy him later about invasion of privacy.

He grinned boyishly and I was instantly reminded of a younger Ron who had practically no worries in the world. The grin soon vanished. "You're not angry?"

_Not yet._ "Not at all," I replied. "It's like having your own guardian angel."

A beat passed, and his face became hooded. "I'm no angel. You saw what I'm capable of."

_Haven't I_, I mused to myself. "Yes. You make me sick," I teased, because the truth scared us both, I think. I knew perfectly well that he was preternaturally gifted, though it seemed he thought of it as a curse.

"Sorry," was his instantaneous reply.

For a long moment we remained silent, and then he rolled on his back beside me, staring at the ceiling. "Go on," he sighed, "ask me."

Was I so transparent? Or was he able to read me like before? There were so many questions pressing themselves in my brain that they had to go through triage first. Finally, I focused on Ron again. "What does a Guardian do? Why are you one of them?"

Ron turned his head and gazed at me a long time before he opened his mouth and told me.

In the end, I wasn't sure I really wanted to know. I was right… and wrong. Oh, so wrong.

#

Later, much later, after Ginny's two back-to-back Cursing and Transfigurement classes, she stood naked in her shower, washing away the remnants of the day. Grime, sweat, frightening memories… She tried to do away with everything for the night.

Harry had often told her she should disconnect when she was home. Problem was, there was only herself and boredom here. She'd thought about buying a pet to keep her company, but with her nutty hours, the animal would likely die of thirst, hunger or lack of attention if she was gone too long. Or boredom. Which took her right back to the problem at hand.

She should cook. Yeah, she'd make some danishes for tomorrow. Maybe she'd bring some for Harry to sample, see if she could equal him. That brought a smile to her lips as she soaped up. She still couldn't see him at the oven, baking and cooking dainty morning meals for his muggles. Harry was so… authoritative. A leader. A genuine male. It boggled the mind.

A sudden pounding jolted her out of her reverie. Ginny stiffened as the pounding redoubled, then stopped abruptly. Slowly, ever so carefully, Ginny pushed the shower curtain aside and grasped her wand from the bathroom sink, holding it tight in her fist. The wait made her go cold. Despite the pattering of the water on the tiles, she heard distinct steps inside her flate. Someone had broken in despite her wards. In a moment of suffused panic, she remembered Harry deeming her wards too weak to keep a determined someone out. Someone who knew something about basic warding. Fuck. That just narrowed it down, didn't it?

The bathroom door flew open, and before she could help it, a shrill scream pierced the echoing walls. It was hers.

* * *

Author's note: Now that I've left you with not one, but _two_ cliffhangers :cackles evilly: you can all hang on tight. This is _so_ not over.

The title of this fic was very loosely inspired by Silverchair's song by the same title. I love it, and even though it doesn't totally fit this chapter, there are _some_ elements that fit somehow. These in particular:

_Breathing from a hole in my lung  
I had no one  
But faces in front of me  
Racing through the void in my head  
To find traces of a good luck academy_

_..._

_Lately I'm a desperate believer  
But walking in a straight line_

_..._

_I don't need no time to say  
There's no changing yesterday  
If we keep talking and I keep walking in straight lines_

That's it. Thanks for reading thus far, and like I said earlier, please let me know what you liked/hated, how much you hate me for not updating quick quick quick, how you are, what you ate recently. That is all. (And I'm insane :DDD)


	6. Synchronise

Author's note: Did I almost forget to update? Yes, I believe I did! This has been typed for a week, at least, but then I promptly forgot about it because I went to visit my sisters for a week. I just came back hours ago and remembered that this chapter was sitting on my hard drive. I know that last chapter finished off with not one, but _two_ cliffies, so without further ado, I shall deliver and end your misery!

Enjoy!

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE: SYNCHRONISE**

"Shh, it's me."

"Harry!" Hastily Ginny covered her body with her hands and shut the water. It took two tries, she was shaking so much. A remnant of adrenaline, her ever helpful brain supplied. "What are you doing here?" she asked, thoroughly discombobulated. For some reason, it wasn't even the thought that he'd just seen her naked that bewildered her, but his eyes. They were too strained, too taut, she thought absently a split second before he replied hollowly.

"I just went home… Hermione's missing."

After that, Ginny didn't care for propriety. She stepped out and took him into the circle of her arms.

#

"It's all in the prophecy," Ron said, then quoted from it. "'A rogue cohort shall pursue the Brotherhood on a wind of betrayal'. We've been fighting the Mage Society ever since."

"Which is when?" I asked curiously.

"It used to be that we kept evil wizards under control. The medieaval ages were relatively calm times. Then some Guardians turned rogue, embracing their powers, and we slowly lost control of the delicate balance. The Brotherhood began dedicating its efforts to protecting wizardkind from the Society."

"What do they want?"

Ron sighed and closed his eyes. "They think they're the better race of wizards. It's Voldemort and Death Eaters all over again."

"Oh." I burrowed into Ron. "Is Buchanan…?"

Ron's arms tightened protectively around me. "I think it's safe to say he is one of them. I've never seen him before, but he held his own against me today. That's proof enough for me."

"Was he the one who set fire to Clarke's lab?"

He shook his head. "I dunno, but… Hermione… it was Fiendfyre. Whoever set fire to his office wanted everything, including Clarke, destroyed and out of their way."

"Even the prophecy?"

He shook his head. "They tried to take it but –"

"You were there." He nodded. "But you didn't see them?" I asked again.

"He or she was wearing an Invisibility charm. I didn't have time to uncover them."

What with how destructive Fiendfyre was, and how nearly impossible it was to put out – heck, Ron was the first person I'd ever heard of who could! – I didn't hold it against him. He must have been as frail as he was now when he was done saving the day that time.

"What is he? Clarke. A Secret Keeper?"

Shaking his head, Ron replied, "No. A lore keeper kept in the dark."

That made sense. "Ahh… the ignorant do not tell," I said, catching up quickly.

With a small smile, Ron nodded. "It's for his own good. The Brotherhood chose him because he's a historian. They wanted me to tell him but I merely left the prophecy in an old book I was sure he would go out of his way to get. In a muggle sale, too." Chuckling privately, he looked the very image of relaxation, despite his recent bruising.

"He knows the surface lore most than most," I added, following his line of thought.

He turned to me and held my gaze. "Exactly." He smiled. "God, I'd forgotten how smart you are. You're amazing, you know that?"

I nudged him, blushing. "So why are you one of them?"

"A Guardian?" Ron's brow hit his hairline. "I have no clue. I had no say. But from what I understand, we've all 'changed over' after a trying battle of some sort. All of us near death. Some of the older ones were there when Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald during World War Two," he added as an afterthought.

"It happens quickly, a lot like being thunderstruck. One moment I was fighting and the next I was down and something… burst out of me. Magic like I'd never felt in me before. And I was gone. Here. Weak. Alone." He linked his hand through mine.

"I thought I was dead. You have no idea what it's like to kiss death in the face. Eventually I came to, but I was never the same. I was too powerful, too uncontrollable at first." He shook his head sadly and sighed. "I'm dangerous, Hermione. We all are. We're… walking timebombs."

"Not to me, you're not."

He was ignoring me, rattling off all kinds of nonsense about monsters and power. "And that's why you shouldn't be here, but goddamn, I can't lose you again."

That's what did it for me. I saw red. Grabbing a cloakful of him, I shoved him down roughly and straddled his lean hips, edging close to his face to growl in his ear. "You think you lost me? What about me? What about _me?_"

God… damn. Tears. I couldn't cry anymore, no way.

"Seven years ago you just vanished into thin air. I buried you in my mind. We didn't have a body, but then many didn't either. Dust… that's all we had. We buried dust. And you were alive here, you knew I was still alive. So don't –" I wiped furiously at my eyes, hating the hot moisture of them. "Don't tell me you lost me, because that's just not fair. It's… not… fair!" Shaking his already battered body, I suddenly felt weak and lay down on him. Oh, peace…

"I'm sorry, 'Mione, I had no way… I wanted… I couldn't."

Ron's words penetrated me as though I were on a floating cloudlike substance, warmth enveloping me and sending me… into sweet emptiness. A strong hand smoothed over my tears, a deep, hoarse voice soothed me softly. "Sleep, luv, you haven't slept in years…"

I floated deeper.

#

It was by sheer miracle that Ginny didn't crumble like Harry just had. After all, Hermione was Harry's anchor, just like Harry was her own. She'd have gone nuts with Syn Wyngyn's whacked-out definition of life if it hadn't been for him throughout all the hard patches. It was only natural that she be there for him when he cracked.

Oh, who was she kidding. Of course it was more than kindness that drove her. It didn't help that she knew the cause of his anguish, the woman behind it. Ginny felt like cracking herself. Hermione had once been her best friend. Whom she'd grown apart from after the war, but who cared? The bonds of friendship never severed of themselves. She'd just never been able to bear the sight of her afterward. Memories, and all that. They hurt.

"Shh…" Ginny soothed Harry, running a damp hand back and forth across the broad expanse of his back. The feel of his heart beating and the sound of his breath against her skin soothed her in return. He hugged her hard, telling her with that gesture just how this new loss affected him. "Did she leave a note?" Ginny asked softly.

"No…" he replied huskily. "I went to the Ministry to pick her up earlier and they said she never returned. I thought she might have gone straight home, but it was empty."

"Did you check her appointments?" Surely as a lawyer she must have some appointments. Maybe she'd had one today.

"Yeah," he breathed. "She went to a historian's lab. Clean as a pin. Empty."

Ginny very gently pulled away and felt her heart crack at the unmistakable sadness in his eyes. "Come here," she said, tugging on his hand that held her fast and leading him to her living room. Dimly she was aware of his gaze on her, but it was neither blatantly male nor sexual. Which made her nudity so much easier to bear around him. She so didn't want him to think about sex right now. It'd be explosive in a hundred wrong ways.

Soon Harry was seated in her loveseat and blindly reached for her. She complied, getting as close as she could. He needed her just like this. She gave freely. "Where do you think she went?"

Harry shook his head slowly. "I don't know…"

"Did she talk about leaving tonight?"

"No. I talked to her parents. They haven't heard from her since… last week. She'd have nowhere else to go."

"What about your… wards?" She didn't want to think about it, but kidnapping needed to be looked into.

"They're strong enough," he growled defiantly.

She was out of possible ideas except maybe one or two that he wouldn't like. She didn't particularly like them either. "I dunno what else to say, Harry. Have you talked to Aurors?"

He snorted. "They don't have a Hermione Granger fanclub over there. With Kingsley retired it's become even worse. She's up in their grille half the time. The other they just don't like her pawing through their business."

Yeah, that was her all right. "Someone needs to know, though. And look."

Harry's expression turned to stone. "Us. She's got us."

Ginny sighed. She _had_ expected that, just hadn't wanted to believe. "What will you tell Keeny? Our boss, remember? We've already got Syn Wyngyn business, school, and the Ron thing. I don't know about you, but I –"

He cut her off abruptly, his fists tightening. "It's Hermione, Gin. What am I supposed to do? Let her just…?" He rubbed his brow. "I promised on Ron's soul that I would take care of her. I'm not about to go back on my word."

"I'm not telling you to give up," Ginny said, throwing out her hands. "Just… let others help, do their jobs."

His mouth flattened. "They really don't care."

Standing, she faced him head-on. Her eyes only reached his nose, but she didn't care. "How about this, I won't let you go off the deep end over this. Because that's where you're headed. I won't help you destroy yourself. Sometimes, you just… have to delegate." She grabbed his hand, rubbing. "How many hours do you sleep?"

For a few seconds he simply stared at her, a hard, dull light in his eyes. "I hate you right now."

It seemed a hundred pounds left her body. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, deflating.

He nodded like he understood exactly what she meant, and grabbed his cellphone from his back pocket.

Ginny glanced at his hands. "What are you doing?"

He looked up, eyes traveling her body before meeting her suddenly wide eyes and flushed face. Well, there went her theory that he was too numbed out to see her. Tersely he said, "Go get dressed. I'm getting help." A second later the phone was at his ear. "Hey mate, did I wake you? No? Good, I need to see you… Yeah, bring her with you. Thanks, I'll owe you. Again."

Glumly Ginny thought, _Gee, another all-nighter. Whoop-dee-doo._

#

I woke suddenly with a cry, clutching at thin air, and instantly reconnected with the present. Bad dream. My immediate unease wasn't due to magic overload this time, but to lack of warmth. Something wasn't right.

I shot up in bed, squinting in the dark, and surveyed where I was. Small room, bare walls, no light, no windows.

I was not home, but with the Guardian Brotherhood. Only, they didn't know I was here. Save Ron, who'd brought me.

Cold. I was cold. Glancing back, I found Ron's side of the bed empty. Somehow I found that cause for sadness. It was also the reason I was cold.

Was he out protecting Bert Clarke again? Searching for Buchanan? Somewhere in the Brotherhood's… Ron had once called it a 'convent'.

Hugging myself, I stood in the darkness, my feet freezing under me. What was this place? I felt like a prisoner in a holding cell, treated like so much cattle, without benefit of sunlight or warmth. _Where_ was this place for it to be this cold? Who could live like this perpetually without going insane?

Suddenly a voice sounded on the other side of the door. "Ron?"

My entire body went frigid with shock. Well of _course_ oher people lived here, but what was I do _do?_

"Hello, Ron? Let me in." Some useless jiggling of the doorknob. "What have you done to your door? Hello? Yoo-hoo, it's me, Robin. I know you're in heeere…"

What to do? Obviously Ron had locked me in but this… Robin… was a Guardian too, wasn't she? She might well be able to break in past whatever spells or wards Ron had undoubtedly put up, and then where would that leave me? If I was found by that Robin girl… Who knew where I'd end up? I wasn't supposed to be here, for chrissakes.

Who was this girl anyway? Why was she trying to get in when she thought Ron was in sleeping or something? Only one reason came to mind and… well, let's just say I narrowed my eyes at the door like they were laser beams and could cut through iron. This Robin sounded young, didn't she…

A very feminine huff, and the Robin girl tugged one last time. "Oh, fine! Be that way! But Julian wants to see you. He's pissed off. You never showed up earlier."

Her footsteps receded down what seemed like a long hall. Solitude claimed me once more, and I returned to the bed thinking, _Wow, I feel detained_.

Where was Ron, indeed. It was a pretty safe bet that he wouldn't want me snooping around, so I was very definetely stuck between these four walls until he returned. Then there'd be something standing between me and one of those walls. Joy of joys. And then what?

The humming silence was stifling. I wished desperately for a book, anything to distract me, but I wouldn't risk lighting my wand or some candles. Besides, there were none of the latter that I could see, and I would bet there were no books. I knew my Ron, didn't I.

So I lay in a half-dead, half-awake state, pondering Ron's world. Power and secrets and torture. The latter bothered me greatly. The secrets, I didn't understand. The power, I could not fathom.

And the Mage Society? I wondered how long it someone someone to embrace their power, their invincibility, to the point of… greed.

Torture. Secrets. Power. Greed. How many great men had gone bad in the history of Man?

#

"So, Harry… Ginny… what's up?"

Ginny groaned out loud, turning to Harry. "_That's_ your help?" she hissed at him, meaning Tom Hopkins. Miranda Anto was with him, but she didn't mind _her_.

In response, he merely shrugged dismissively and turned to the two newcomers with the same hard expression that he'd been sporting since she had come out of the loo. That would be one big fat I Don't Care.

Sighing, Ginny grudgingly joined the group of three. "Hermione's missing," Harry announced in a likewise hard voice.

Miranda gasped. Evidently neither she nor Hopkins had expected that to be the problem. "Oh my God. Are you okay?" she asked just as Hopkins whistled low. "Shit, mate."

In no time, Harry had the two of them briefed and they all broke into their usual groups of two: Tom and Miranda to Harry and Hermione's house; Harry and Ginny to the historian's lab. The idea was to check for any strange factor. Harry had quickly demonstrated the Singulus spell beforehand, and so the other two were armed with a nifty little extra trick in their bag.

"You really don't trust anyone else, do you?" Ginny asked Harry quietly when they were inside the darkened historian's lab.

Harry was shaking his head absently to himself, having apparently not heard her. "Jesus, you'd think after getting fired up the other day, they'd be more careful with security," he muttered under his breath. Then he looked back at Ginny. She only saw the rough outline of his face. "Not really. I've never trusted the system, that's all."

"But not Syn Wyngyn?" she asked, brows raised.

"Nope, but I trust Tom and Miranda seems trustworthy," he said before squatting and illuminating his wand. "What have we got here…" he murmured, studying a spot that was cleaner than the rest of the floor. The pattern had once been mosaical, now it was mostly ruined. Except for that bit.

Ginny squatted next to him, but felt useless as Harry pulled the 8-figure routine. "Ever heard of double agents?" she whispered so she wouldn't break his concentration or wouldn't be heard at all, depending.

Harry glanced at her over his wand, his face darkly illuminated. "Weren't you the one who suggested I bring in help?" He seemed surprised.

Ginny put up her hands, shrugging. "It's just food for thought. I like Miranda, but…"

Harry smiled for the first time that night. "But you dislike Hopkins." He dropped his head to smile privately and monitor his spell. "How about this, I trust them more than most. Even if you hate him."

"Are you laughing at me?" The concept was weird, considering his earlier black mood.

"With you, of course."

She did it. She shoved him, promptly breaking his connection. But instead of being all up in her grille, he simply kept squatting there, a smug grin lighting his eyes. "What?" he asked all innocently.

_Argh_. Ginny sighed, pulling out her wand. "Let me do it." She got ready, then wondered _Well, I don't know what he's looking for_. "What are we looking for?"

He got serious again. "I dunno. This might be where she was abducted or something. I'm getting weird vibes from that spot."

Ginny nodded and got down to business. Before

long she was blinking up at Harry. "What happened?"

Harry was staring at her like he didn't know himself. "I tried to help you again, but you just blacked out like last time."

Pushing her upper body off the floor, Ginny looked at the clear spot nearby. Harry had laid her down a metre away. "I don't even remember anything this time."

"Well…" Harry looked puzzled. "I thought I saw a hint of a Shield. Whoever was standing here was protecting themselves. Or someone else." He scrunched up his face in recollection. "According to Hermione's notes that I saw in her office, the man she's representing was in a fire and someone else Shielded them. Someone named, uh, Honos I think."

Ginny watched Harry stand up and increase the illumination on his wand. Slowly he turned around, studying the room at large and its mostly repaired mess. "Fiendfyre?" she asked, brows drawn high.

They both looked at each other. Spoke at the same time. "No way."

Then Ginny scrunched up her own face thoughtfully. "But… what if?"

Harry looked at her as if she'd grown two heads. "Um, Ginny? Fiendfyre is impossible to put out, if you'll remember from Follett's class on Impossibles."

"Haven't had that one yet, sorry." She grinned, all teeth and humour.

Harry blew out an exasperated breath. "Well hear me out," he said before slapping his palms to her cheeks, making damn sure she listened. "They're called Impossibles for a reason."

Ginny crossed her arms defiantly and stayed there between his hands, completely unfettered. "_Hypothetically_ speaking, what if? I mean, it's pretty easy to Shield yourself from pretty much everything, depending on your speed and repel strength – magic, I mean. Everyone's got a different Shield, some stronger than others. Right?" she asked, though she knew she was right.

Harry did, too. With a grim expression, he nodded wordlessly.

"So _hypothetically_ speaking, someone with a Shield equal or stronger than the Fiendfyre would be able to protect themselves like that," she said, gesturing to the clean mark.

"Sure," Harry replied grudgingly, "but…"

"I know. Not plausible. To you."

"To anyone," he said with a little shake of her head as though to say _Get it through your thick skull_.

"Sure, sure." She glanced back at the mark. She'd stay with her theory, though, because she excelled at them and knew it. "So there's nothing new in there, nothing from today?"

Gently Harry released her head with a curse at her intention, and shook his head. "Nah. That's probably all from the night of the fire. Although, it's eerie, no? It feels the same as Spinner's End… all that power." He mused for a few seconds then again shook his head. "I don't believe in coincidences."

"Me neither," Ginny supplied.

A soft smile – gosh, it was beautiful – graced his lips before he turned to the rest of the room, scanning it. "What do you see?" he asked her then, and they were back to Hermione-hunting.

Ginny drew herself up on her knees and sat with them folded under her next to Harry. From there she visually scoured the lab from a low perspective, seeing… "Nothing."

Ordinarily abductions involved a bit of fighting, and that fighting was often horizontal. A knee in the back, a hand at the neck, that sort of thing. So it explained their low altitude for their exploration.

Harry grunted his similar conclusion, then stood and prowled like a predator, embodying one.

Ginny watched from the same position as he walked the length, walking right up to furniture and examining book spines on the shelves and rummaging around desks. Suddenly he stopped right at the farthest corner of the room and dropped to his haunches. "Gin? Come here."

Ginny walked over.

In the beaming glow of his wand, a tiny drop of dried blood appeared near the bottom of the vertical crack.

"Is that…?"

Harry squatted and held up a finger. "Watch. _Genus Revelum_." His wand glowed blue. He exhaled deeply, swaying as it faded to white again.

"What just happened?"

He turned to her, obviously relieved. "It's a boy."

#

_It's a boy._

"Huh?" Oh, that was a very intelligent academic response.

As he looked back at her, Harry furrowed his brow. "Your parents never told you about this one? It's for telling the sex of a baby. With a bit of the mother's urine, I'm told, but…"

"Well seeing as I don't have kids and am the last of the Weasley crop, _no_, I've never heard of it. Hi, my name is not Bill Weasley."

Harry snorted. "And thank the Lord. I couldn't handle a small Bill with woman breasts."

"Oh my _God!_" Laughter spilled out of her in short bursts, loosening her overall tension until she was calm, happy, and needed mental image removal. "Jesus, my poor brain… How do you know this anyway?" As far as she knew, he and Hermione didn't…

Harry flushed a deep red, rubbing his neck. "Ah, your parents told me. Not that we need it."

Ah, there was her answer. Ginny knew why she was glad to know that but couldn't stop herself from thinking she was a selfish bitch for thinking it. "Oh."

He cleared his throat. Obviously this was not a comfortable topic. "Anyway. So all that to show that's not Hermione's blood."

_Thank God_, Ginny thought as she blacklighted her wand and surveyed the chlorine job. Sheesh, the poor man would be lucky to still be alive.

A shrill sound broke the silence. Harry palmed his mobile. "What have you got? Good, wait for us." Snapping it shut, he pocketed it again and straightened. "That was Hopkins. They found our vic," he said, pointing his chin at the cheap cover-up. "He's at St. Mungo's and kicking. Let's go."

#

I fell asleep again at some point, all time-confused because I didn't know how much of it had passed since Ron had taken me to his room. Without benefit of windows or watch – _why_ hadn't I put it on the morning of I had no clue – I could well have sworn it'd been days. My body whispered no, but who could trust an internal clock that needed an actual three-dimensional, tangible and very annoying alarm clock loud enough to wake the dead in the morning? I didn't. Hence, I was still thoroughly unbalanced.

When I did wake up later – who knew how _much_ later that was – it was to see Ron easing his way into his room. "Hey," he murmured, "did I wake you?"

"I don't think so," I replied, stretching like a well-rested cat. I felt like one. "Where were you?"

Ron leaned back against the closed door, a wistful expression on his face and a small private smile stretching his lips. "Feels really odd to have someone to come home to. Like the tent, remember?" His brilliant eyes drew me into the memory.

"Yeah. You and Harry were _such_ boys, coming back to the camp later than everyone else. And to prove what? Your virility?"

He grinned. "Sure, why not? We were _out there_, finally."

I pursed my lips. "You scared the shite out of me," I said with as much accusation as I remembered feeling back then.

Pushing away from the door, Ron pulled his customary hood back to reveal his gleaming fiery hair. "Bah, I always came back, didn't I? Didn't we?"

I gave him The Look. "I suffer you."

"_Ha!_" He landed on top of me, straddling my half-turned body even as I let out a yelp and balled up tight in protection. "So, I was thinking…"

I poked him before he could go on. "You still haven't answered."

"What?"

I stared.

"Oh. Can't say. But Clarke's fine. He survived." He gave me a tight smile. "He's not pretty, I'll admit, but he'll make it."

Taking a deep breath, I almost didn't want to ask. "What about Buchanan?"

His head dropped into my neck. "Off the radar," he muttered. "Can we please talk about something else?"

I sighed. "Someone came by earlier." At that, his head shot up, and I was right. He really didn't want my presence broadcast.

"Who?"

"A girl… Robin?" He cursed. "She didn't see me. Or hear. I swear."

He shook his head. "Nah, it's not about you. She's just annoying. Likes to follow me around. Annoy me some more."

Ha! Quickly I hid my smile, but what a lark! Ron had a fangirl! "Anyway," I coughed, "she was _very_ put out" – Ron stuck out his tongue at me – "and said something about a Julian wanting to talk to you. Apparently you were supposed to –"

"Meet him," Ron finished for me, and cursed. "Damn, I forgot about him."

I waited a bit for him to explain. When he didn't, I pressed on. "Shouldn't you go?"

Ron stayed put. "He's out."

"O… kay. So now what?"

"Um."

I knew that expression. It was blatantly male and especially suggestive. Seven years ago I'd seen it often on his face. Been stupid to turn him down, too. Now it made me feel… like a woman. Again. Finally. It sure was appreciated, but I once again had to divert his attention. "So how long am I going to stay hidden here?" That worried me, and I needed a definite time stamp.

Ron ducked his head again, nuzzling my throat. I couldn't think straight when he did that. The bastard, he remembered. "Until you're safe," he replied in a gravely voice against my skin.

I struggled to pull my head out of the wicked bin. "You don't know." I didn't need to ask, really. I think that uncertainty scared him, because then he was sure of nothing. With all this power must come grand expectations out of fate. Great historic men had sat at the top of the world before that very world had toppled them over and out.

Ron drew back slightly. "What's wrong?" I must have grown stiff. I felt stiff.

Urgency made my words seem dreadful to me. "Don't you turn Mage on me."

Jerking in surprise, Ron blinked down at me. "What the hell?"

"You don't know. You're scared. You think you should know." I paused, shaking my head wildly. "Doesn't the Society begin somewhere? _That's_ where."

Shaking his head slowly in bafflement, Ron frowned down at me. "What the hell are you talking about? I'm not turning Society on you."

I didn't know why that made me feel better. Hell, I didn't know why I felt this impending doom barreling down at Ron. Premonition? Plain nightmare, with nothing to worry about? Merlin, I prayed for the latter because… Ron just wasn't Stalin-bad. He might not be wholesome good, but… "Sorry, I just… freaked out. All better."

Still looking spooked, Ron eyed me like he foresaw white padded rooms in my future.

"I'm fine," I assured him shakenly.

"And I'm not planning on turning into a selfish prick. Okay?" I nodded. "Good," he breathed out. As he settled back into me, I welcomed the heavy weight of him against my side. "What made you, er –" he asked again as he brushed my hair from my face and then rolled to face me. His eyes, concerned as they were, bore into me like floodlights, baring everything.

"Ah, just that this place is run a little… unconventionally."

"Mm," was his rumbled assent.

I ran my hand over his strong jaw, tracking the movement with my eyes. "And it's not like you to take orders and… punishment," I said carefully. "Like you were trained to?"

Ron coughed and dropped his gaze to the bed between our close bodies. Then he spoke. "We're a unit, you know? Something doesn't work, we take action –"

"It wasn't like that with Harry," I pointed out quietly.

"I know," he muttered before raising his head. It was red and grim.

That's when I got it. "You hate it," I breathed out. Silence met my claim, but I knew it to be true, just like I knew him. His face looked too dejected for it to be anything else.

"That beating," I continued, "it wasn't just about the book, was it?" Silence again. "You're too much of a free agent," I deduced easily, knowing his hotheaded nature.

"Something like that," he muttered.

"Oh, Ron…" I murmured, leaning in for a kiss.

What started out as a gentle, sympathising kiss quickly became a bit more energetic as time and feelings and passion began piling up so that we were both breathless by the time Ron lifted his head.

A lot of staring went on, and then he brought his hand to my cheek, stroking. "Yeah, I'm scared, but only for you," he said. "I'd do anything to keep you safe. Anything."

That gave me pause once more. "Even lie to the Brotherhood?" He just kept staring, a defiantness in them that answered my question as swiftly as if he'd actually said the words. I felt like bashing him in the head. "Don't you see? That's how it all starts!"

But he wouldn't hear anything of it. "Nothing's starting, dammit!" he roared, then lowered his voice. "Calm down, Luv. That's right, calm down."

"Ugh," I groaned into his chest. "Why couldn't you have been a regular wizard? _No_, you have to be the best."

"The lowest of," he corrected smoothly. "I'm barely out of training."

Like that mattered? "Whatever."

Ron shifted a bit against me. "Tell you what, how about we don't talk about this anymore?"

Something in that struck me. Grinning suddenly, I poked him in the chest once. "That's the third time you've tried changing the subject with me." Though it was sorely needed. I needed to get rid of those dark thoughts and, thank God, he was there to make that happen.

He pecked me quickly. "Did it work?"

_That's the great thing about Ron,_ I thought right then. _Never misses his mark when it comes to play._ Feeling just as playful, I drew in close, speaking directly against his mouth. "Every single time."

He was the one to move in for this kiss, hot and soft against my lips. He tasted like licorice and woods, that heady scent that branded him. Licking and sucking and biting softly, I drank my fill, past and present warring in my brain until I didn't know exactly where or _when_ I was. I recognised Ron in his special taste and scent, but not in the shape and size of the man between my arms. The confusion was intoxicating, like a known stranger, and it left me breathless and wanton. Who cared about the differences? He was Ron, and I was Hermione, and this was us. Together. Alone. Like so many other times in the past, but those had never pressed us with years in between now and then.

I trembled with… what? Fear? Not of him, never. Tears? I was way past crying. Anticipation? Ah, yes. I trembled with unparalleled lust, wanting that one thing we'd never shared but always promised we would later, when the time was just right. Well, later was now and the time… who cared about right anymore? When was right, anyway? I'd lost my childish dreams of rightness when maturity kicked in on overdrive. I knew none of those precious fantasies anymore for they belonged to someone who hadn't known immediate grief. Shattered, never to be revisited. So… now or anytime were just right. But I wanted now, and I realised that Ron was shaking next to me, too.

Good, that made the two of us.

His eyes locked with mine, burning as they silently asked the very same question he then spoke with that husky gravely voice of his. "Now?"

I shuddered from head to toe from the feel of his erection on my hip. And wanted to weep because he asked with a desperation that found me. "God, yes," I choked out.

What followed was a mad scramble to undress each other punctuated by a fear of what was to come, what was happening to us. We were twenty-four, for chrissakes, and virgins to top it off. Sexy dreams and sad nighttime visitations had not prepared us for this.

#

"Christ," Ron graoned when he had me in my knickers and bra and I had him in his boxers. "You don't know how many times I've dreamt of you like this." Slowly he reahed out to touch me, his heat slamming into me through the thin fabric. "I'd almost convinced myself my hand was enough."

Sweetly he kissed me again, but what I did next shocked us both. Ron moaned into my mouth before rolling on top of me. The room was suddenly illuminated as he lighted it, bright and… oh, his eyes…

"I was obviously very wrong," he said heatedly, grinding into my hand.

"Could have told you that myself."

He tilted his head, eyes flaring. "You've tried it?" Moving his hand, he slowly ran his finger over my cloth-covered nipples. It seemed my admission pleased him.

"Mm hmm," I answered breathily. "Both mechanical and manual." Never inside, though. I'd never had the nerve. Or the need. "But I don't recommend it. It'll drive you mad."

His big body rumbled with nervous laughter. "No kidding." Somehow the knowledge that I wasn't the only one on edge relieved me. The two of us were equal players in this game of touch and go. "Even imagining you wasn't real enough for me."

I spread out for him, allowing Ron to sink closer into me. "What was I like?" I asked as he looked down where our bodies almost met.

He lifted his eyes. Deep. Blue. Shadowed. "Perfect… Let me see you, Luv."

I had to sit up to work on my bra. Ron sat back on his knees and I felt his heavy gaze on me as I unhooked the tiny clasps. Just before I could slip it off, though, he stopped me, hands going to the straps. "Let me." I lowered my arms, throat going dry.

Slowly his large hands pushed the straps off my shoulders and I watched as his eyes lowered almost in prayer. Quick as that, he then met my gaze. "Beautiful." And he drew me to him, to my knees. Our bare skin touched. We both sighed. "It's like you said, I've been going mad."

I yelped, scowling. "You think it's been great for me?"

"Maybe not," he mused with a wry smile. His hands were now at the elastic band of my knickers. Thumbs slipping in, he lowered them, fingers trailing behind to touch every inch of skin he could. They twitched. "So smooth. Can I?" he asked, eyeing my thighs.

I cradled his face and leaned in so that our lips touched. "Sure. Just… slow, okay?" He nodded slightly.

We stayed like that, never actually kissing, as Ron gently brushed a fingertip over every corner of my intimacy. Eyes closed, he listened to my every sound, brows furrowed one moment in concentration and the next in something more physical, more… raw. I watched his closed lids without really seeing, lost in a place deep inside of myself that I'd thought dead or broken all this time. It wasn't. It bloomed, it beat low and it felt deeper inside still than just its core. I felt like laughing, I felt like welling. God, I was alive!

I clutched disorderly at him, breathing things I did not understand. Directions? It seemed so, because the next second something warm gushed out of me. Although I recognised the substance for what it was, I was momentarily lost as to how it could have come so fast. Glorious things were happening to me beneath his fingers. And then the next thing I knew was that I cried out, and I clawed at him harder still as – "_Ron_" – wave after wave of an exhiliating rush came barreling down at me.

But the earth-shattering orgasm didn't stop there. A split second later, Ron had shoved his boxers down past his scrotum, brought me into his lap so I straddled him proper, and twisted us down so he surged on top of me. I cried out again as he penetrated me, but the pain was largely superceded by the pleasure tide I was already riding though I still felt acutely how big he was. Sweat broke out across Ron's skin, and the slap of skin on skin heightened all my senses until I could only feel what was right there in me, on me, around me. _Ron_.

It was our first time together as well as separately. It was sloppy and terrifying. He was invading a small but important part of me. It was beautiful and it was uncomfortable, but the previous sweet release finally coaxed another one out of me until my body did the rest for me. And it was shortly afterward, when I held Ron tightly to me with my legs around him, and saw him arch over me one last time, that I realised none of it, none of the pain, mattered. I did not care for perfection.

#

"_What do you mean, we can't go in?"_

Harry's roar echoed down the hall until Ginny was sure that the entire wing could hear them. Putting her hand on his arm, Ginny spoke softly so only he could hear. "Harry, calm down, there's got to be a misunderstanding."

His reaction didn't surprise her. With everything that had kept cropping up lately, she was actually surprised that he hadn't blown like a pricked balloon yet.

The nurse, however, wasn't so understanding. "Kindly leave, visitation hours were over a long time ago."

"We're not visiting –"

"Then what are you doing?" the thin woman scowled, obviously unimpressed.

"We're investigating a case."

The nurse pursed her lips, looked him up and down, and frowned some more. "Never seen you before. Where's your Auror badge? Both of you."

Now Harry looked really impatient, growling, "You don't understand –"

"_Ha!_ I've seen the likes of you before. Get out. Come back tomorrow. Never try that that ploy again."

Ginny could tell Harry was an explosion waiting to happen. He'd likely burst with the one weapon he hated: _Do you know who I am?_ – but he never got the chance.

The closed door to the room they'd been standing in front of all this time suddenly eased open, and Miranda popped her head out. "It's okay, Libby," she said quietly. "They're with us."

Libby groaned with disgust, rolled her eyes, and marched away. "Oh, Anto, you owe me double for these fools. That one in particular," she said over her shoulder, pointing a thumb at Harry.

Miranda sighed, pulling the door open for both of them. "She's just doing her job," she murmured as Harry and Ginny passed her. Harry grunted, Ginny attempted a smile despite her drowsiness.

And then Tom stood from next to the only bed in the room. What lay in it was a mummified man, with only a few key inches of skin left exposed. "Harry, Ginny, hi," Tom greeted them grimly. "This is Bert Clarke, Hermione's client."

Harry nodded to the heavily bandaged figure under the bedsheets and walked right up to it. "Hello, Bert. I'm Harry Potter and this is my partner, Ginny Weasley. We're with Tom and Miranda. May we ask you a few questions?"

#

Ginny unlocked her door and then sighed, rubbing her eyes wearily. "Gosh, this is a mess. He didn't even know anything relevant."

Harry had pushed past her, gunning straight for her couch. It had been her idea and recommendation that they sleep on what they'd been able to glean – not much – before delving any deeper into "the mess", as she liked to call it. Eventually Harry had relented, but now the prospect seemed to be more appealing to him as he reclined and closed his eyes. "No, but we know why he was banged up. Some old text."

Ginny snorted in disgust. "Didn't even remember what it was."

Cracking an eye open a slit, Harry pegged her with it. "Wouldn't _tell _us. There's a difference. He's hiding something and I think it has something to do with Hermione."

As she dropped onto the arm of the loveseat that faced him, Ginny shook her head and then realised she was being stared at. "What?"

Harry shrugged. "I dunno." He closed his one eye again, and then seemed to have fallen asleep.

Ginny bit her lip. "Um, Harry?" He'd decided to stay the night over – which she agreed with completely – but that didn't mean he should have neck strain in the morning. She stood slowly. "Maybe… maybe you should sleep in a bed."

"'S all right, 'm fine here."

Damn all men and their chivalry! "Harry… come with me. You should… sleep in a bed."

His eye came open again, and he was silent as she inhaled and… held. "You sure?" he asked.

She released. "Yes. You'll be infinitely more comfortable. And I don't snore. I swear. I think." The humour was meant to ease her own tension, but it redoubled when he stood up with a great mighty push. He was more tired than he let on.

"Okay," he said, but she'd gotten the meaning already.

Quickly she turned and headed for her bedroom in search of stray feminine things before he could come in.

She'd just snatched the knickers and pink bra lying on her bed when he came loping in, looking for all the world like a drunk, with bleary eyes and zigzagging waltz. Hiding the feminine things behind her back, Ginny dashed outside to give him his privacy. Then popped her head back in. "Um, take whatever side. I don't care."

She heard his belt buckle come undone as she went away, and swallowed hard. Shit, she'd sleep with Harry.

#

A half-hour later, Ginny tiptoed it back to her room, dressed in her customary shirt-and-short combination. Easing in past the door, she saw through the darkness that Harry had indeed fallen asleep and that he was also wearing a shirt and shorts. Or, er, boxers.

Why did the distinction matter?

_Because_, a small voice inside her head explained while things quickened inside her, _shorts are shorts and boxers and underwear, lest you forget_.

Oh, she had not forgotten, just chosen to ignore. But now the distinction was right in her face under the covers.

She should not have invited – pushed, really – him in her bed. Things could get… complicated. In her brain, especially. But, fighter that she was, she would do it because it was late, she was tired, so was he, nothing could _possibly_ happen, and – oh my God, yes, boxers!

_Get a grip, Weasley. It's just a piece of clothing, nothing less. So he's not naked, see?_

She did see. And it _so_ did not matter.

_Fighter._ Right. _On with it. Close your eyes. Get some sleep. Simple._

Ginny climbed under the covers and lay down as far away as possible from Harry, and scowled. _Damn Harry and his boxers_.

It was her last thought before her body powered off for however long it had to juice up again.

#

Ron held Hermione long afterward, basking in a glow that didn't seem to completely reach his head. Cold hands were closing down around his chest as he thought about how she couldn't possibly stay with him, even now. The danger was too great.

Merlin, he didn't even want to think about the possibility of her being found here. It definitely sent his nerves into a deep freeze.

Yet even as she stirred in his arms and pressed back against him, he knew he wouldn't change his mind for all the world. She was… his.

He sealed both their fates by pressing his lips to the sensitive back of her neck.

She shivered.

"You'd better now, Luv, before it's too late," he whispered to her sleeping form before drawing away and slipping on his cloak.

#

"Honos, how you please us with your presence."

Ron bowed in deference to the Circle of Elders. "I have come as Elder Aine requested." He straightened, but did not lift his eyes. Stayed quiet until one of them asked him a question. He'd learned well.

"What is your progress on the search for the book?" a man's voice asked to his right.

He angled his head toward the voice. "I have no been able to locate it."

The Elder's voice sharpened. Ron imagined narrowed eyes, a hard jaw, long nose. "What of the prophecy?"

"Neither," he replied, heart hammering in his ears. _Please not the torture, please not…_

Someone snorted derisively. "I told you, Lady Aine. It was better not to send an inexperienced one."

Ron spoke up then, a breach of procedure for sure, but he didn't care much now. "But I know who has it."

He could feel all eyes on him now.

"You do?" the man asked sceptically. "Who?"

"A man named Kyle Buchanan. I believe he's a member of the Society. He nearly killed my –" Ron flushed, stumbling over his words "– a woman today trying to get her to translate it."

Aine gasped softly, her voice becoming fierce. "Where is this woman?"

_Careful_, Ron thought. Swallowing hard, he bowed his head even lower to hide his face. "She is no threat to the Brotherhood."

"You have killed her?" she asked, and he jerked. In this instant she sounded pleased with him, for the first time. Ron remained silent. "Good. We do not need civilians to tip the scales in their favour." She started pacing, her robes fluttering over the pale floor. "I trust she did not tell the Mage what he sought?"

She had told Buchanan nothing that seemed to matter. Not that he should know. "No."

"Guardian Honos, looks up." Exhaling deeply, Ron looked up and met the female Elder's clear blue eyes in her pale face. A slow smile split her fiercely set features. "It is time you heard the prophecy, I think. What say the Circle?"

A murmur of scepticism rolled around the circular room, and then one by one they gave reluctant assent.

Aine smiled again, haughtily, and headed for her chair once more. When seated comfortably, she spoke clearly, her voice ringing out. "The first Circle of Elders had a Seer among their numbers. She Spoke this, her first and most important prophecy: _The Oldest Prophecy._

_"A legend, older than wizardry itself  
Tells that the Brotherhood of Guardians  
Will prosper for one thousand years, teaching  
Their brethren to serve the greater good._

_"The Circle of Elders warns that a rogue cohort  
Shall pursue the Brotherhood on a wind of betrayal  
And cast it and its legendary warriors into darkness._

_"But fear not despair, children of Odin,  
For the one born thrice of fire  
In the twenty-first of Yeshua  
Shall triumph when he finds his soul._

_"Then shall the Guardian Brotherhood  
Thrive for a thousand years more."_

An eeriness filled the silence then, heavy and stifling, as Aine sat back to observe the room at large, but Ron especially.

* * *

Author's note: I believe I'm leaving you with yet another cliffhanger... and who knows what with Harry and Ginny :cackles: Oh, awesome!

I should say (and my livejournal friends will remember when I said this) that writing first-time sex is _hard_. Especially with two twenty-five year-olds. I mean, I roll my eyes whenever I read this in romance (published authors write virgins all the bloody -- pun, haha :D -- time) so I was reluctant to write Hermione and Ron as virgins, but I think it makes sense... but I'm the writer so of course it makes sense! ;) Let me know what you think/thought.

I have started writing chapter six, if you're wondering. All of, like, two pages lol. Yippee ;P

So... I leave you off to wonder about :flails: all this.


	7. Giving Chase

Author's note: Sorry for taking so long! Will be pretty busy this summer since I'm working a 9-to-5 job, but I'm working on this every weekend. I'm determined to finish this if it kills me.

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX: GIVING CHASE**

Ginny woke as she always did: slowly. It was bad, of course. As a future Syn Wyngyn operative, she would be required to wake on command or on attack, ready to pounce, on a daily basis. She should already, at this point, be like that, but she'd always slept like a rock and doubted the transition would be quick and smooth. Until then, though, she would just bow to her body's commands. And right now, that body of hers was sleep-sated and happy, if not reluctant to rouse – it knew it had work ahead of it.

Rolling onto her back, however, she froze. Something, or rather someone, was in bed with her, pressed snugly against her side. Eyes blinking open, Ginny made out a blurry black shape. Jet black hair.

And that was when she remembered the previous night. And Harry.

Without his glasses, and without the fierce strength of character that he wore like body armour and that she associated with him, he looked almost… frail. His hair, sticking out more than usual, made him look boyish and adorable. His shirt had bunched up and twisted around his abs when he'd turned on his side. Ginny watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, the steady movement of his muscles, as he breathed. She could tell he was still in the thick of slumber, and she bit her lip thinking about the reason. Gosh, last night had been hell. She couldn't even begin to imagine what it had been like for him. To lose someone you cared about… Ginny wanted to reach out, feeling numb at the what ifs, but knew she shouldn't.

Despite her best intentions, before she knew it she was reaching out. Ginny cursed when she touched Harry's hair. It was short and felt coarse through her fingers. Harry made an undefinable "hmph" and rolled over his body. Suddenly Ginny had a view of his nice-fitting white boxers.

_Damn Harry and his boxers_, she thought for the second time that day even as she looked her fill, admiring his obviously well toned body. Powerful shoulders tapered into a narrow waist that then rose into two tight buttocks. Hidden beneath robes and/or Muggle clothes, she'd been able to appreciate his build but never the particulars. As for the judo gi, well, it was made of too thick a material to show anything. So now she could see most everything.

_Pfft, any female with half a brain would be attracted to a specimen like him_, she thought in bitter dismay.

_Keep lying to yourself, Weasley_.

The truth was, she wanted to feel the texture of him. Would he feel hot or lukewarm? Ginny realised she didn't remember. Or, if she did, her brain had promptly decided to shut down on that sole piece of information just now. Hence, she needed to jog her memory. She touched him.

He jerked when she did­—her fingers were cool—but she reveled in the warmth of him. Good Circe, was he a bloody furnace underneath all that flesh? Had he always been that way? She suddenly remembered the answer—yes—but didn't remember ever feeling quite that hot.

And that's when it snowballed.

Slowly, lazily, like a supine cat, Harry began purring, moving, stretching. Mortified, Ginny snatched her hand back and was left with nothing else to do but stare as Harry stared back through one green-slitted eye. A sleepy smile stretched his lips and, when he spoke, it was gravely, as if he wasn't quite ready to wake up just yet. "Morning," he rumbled.

"Er, morning," Ginny stuttered stupidly, sure her face rivaled a tomato's colouring. Then she bolted p. "Um, we'd better get prepared. We have to go through the historian's lab records to see which texts were out that d—"

The green slit disappeared as Harry closed his eye. "Get some sleep, Gin."

"I'm _totally _awake."

Rolling onto his back again, Harry tugged his shirt down. That decency made Ginny feel that much better that she didn't see his pecs anymore when she looked at him. Which seemed it was all she could do. "I'm not. So come here. Let's talk." He patted the spot next to him and struggled to sit up against her headboard.

Cautious, Ginny crawled back onto her bed and sat next to him gingerly. "What about?"

Sighing heavily, Harry then met her eyes. The soberness in them was disconcerting. Just a moment ago he'd been smiling. Harry was a serious man to begin with, but he didn't overwhelm. Now he did. "What do you want to do?"

Well, speaking of overwhelming. That took her by surprise. "I don't understand."

Breaking his gaze away from hers, Harry leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He looked serene. She knew better. Harry was preoccupied. "Do you want to keep working with me to find Hermione or do you want to find Ron alone?"

Ginny's jaw dropped. As did her stomach. "That's not fair. You want to find Ron just as much as I do."

He raised a brow. "Do you want to find Hermione?"

What a question! "Of course!"

There was a short silence, broken by Harry's wry reply. "That's my point, Gin. We can't do both at once."

Ginny remained quiet until he dared to look over. Then she gave him a look to kill. "You suck," she ground out between her teeth. A moment later, inexplicably, tears began pooling in her eyes. She swiped at them angrily. "Dammit."

She heard a muttered curse, and then Harry gathered her awkwardly in his arms. "I just can't do both, Gin, please understand that."

She knew. She understood how that might make him feel like he would be splitting himself into two pieces, but it didn't mean it didn't hurt her, too. "It's a low blow, though, admit it," she said into his shirt.

He released a hard breath, nodding. "So what's your choice?" he asked wearily.

She was silent a long time, deliberating with herself. On the one hand, if they separated, she had a chance at finding her formerly dead brother—_if_ he was alive. On the other, though, Harry needed someone to keep him grounded so he didn't slip into another black hole like the last time someone close to him had disappeared on his watch.

Regardless of the fact that Hermione was a grown woman, old enough to take care of herself, Harry still thought of her as his charge… over his best mate's grave. Over Ginny's brother's grave. Shivers ran over her.

Harry's arms tightened around her. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Her throat hurt. She didn't want to care, but she did. Too much. "Let me go with you, okay?"

Harry drew away slowly. "You sure? Why?"

Ginny bit her lip, holding all emotions at bay with more or less success. "I just… don't want to be alone right now."

She felt his hands rub her back soothingly, yet couldn't help but feel like she was killing her brother once more in her mind by not being able to do this by herself. With Harry, she was grounded. Without anyone… she couldn't even begin to imagine. She even felt cowardly.

"It's okay. You're with me now."

And just for that, she wanted to cry all over again. Because it was partly true, and yet partly not. She pulled away sharply, not wanting to enter _that_ zone. Wanting to get things done. She looked for her wand. Where the hell was it?

But Harry simply stood there, all askance, a curious expression on his face. "Gin?" he asked faintly. After a moment of merely watching her turning her bedroom over in her frantic search for her wand, he grabbed her arm. "Gin!"

She whirled, pulling away hard. "What?" she asked perhaps a bit more forcefully than she'd intended. Her skin still tingled from where he'd touched her.

Harry frowned. "What's wrong? One minute you're nearly crying your eyes out and the next you're—"

"It's nothing," Ginny replied quietly and began searching again for her wand. It made for something she could put her mind to without feeling ten kinds of stupid.

"It's not." Harry sighed irritably after a moment, rubbing his neck. "Gin, please, just stop for a minute, will you?"

She did, reluctantly, and crossed her arms without looking up. Harry stepped closer, drew her face up by the chin, and frowned again.

"Is this about… us?" When Ginny tried to look away again—anywhere!—he growled, "Look at me."

She looked up despite her best intentions, but remained silent. God, her hormones were crazy today. Three times now she'd been ready to bawl. What was up with her?

"Talk to me, Gin. You know you can talk to me about anything."

_Not that_, she thought with a bitter inner laugh.

"Please."

His face was closer now, painfully so. With just a tiny movement, she could kiss him, or run her hands over his broad shoulders and neck, or anything else that was equally tempting and totally forbidden. _He's not your boyfriend anymore. You would do well to remember that._

Yet the next second, _he_ was the one who kissed her.

_She_ was the one who let him.

#

Ron barged into the room, jerking me out of my light sleep, and came up short when he saw me. At his vacant expression, I immediately sat up, brows knitting together. "What's wrong? Where were you?"

"Elders," he said shortly. "They wanted to… talk."

Growing suspicious of his demeanour, I frowned. "That's all they did, then?" I looked over his robed body, trying to remember if he'd looked in any pain when he'd walked in. I didn't think so, but then Ron had always been proud.

"I want you to come with me today."

In an instant all my remaining dormant neurons cried happily. "Why?" I asked, grinning despite my voice's cautious undertone.

I could see something troubled him, but decided to let it slide this once. After all, I was heading out. No careless questions, or else I could be denied that simple gift.

"I have to work and I don't want to leave you here. You'll be safer with me."

And no one would inadvertently happen upon me, I reasoned silently where he left off. "Ron, I do have to go back to work one day. I've already missed one day."

Ron acknowledged my veiled query with a nod. "Of course, but not yet. It's not safe with Buchanan and whoever else out there."

But already I was making plans: first I'd pester the Aurors for a report on the most recent Clarke incident and see where their previous investigation was leading, and then I'd go to St. Mungo's to see Clarke himself. I wondered now if he'd healed enough to tell me his version of the second event in more detail.

I also wondered if Buchanan might be inclined to show up and tell me his side like a good man. Then I grimaced. Hardly.

Looking up, I met Ron's obvious objection to the expression I must have been wearing. I faced it head-on with what I hoped was an amenable smile that could sway him. "You could come with me…" I said smoothly. "I just have to get a few things done today."

"No," he said tersely.

"Please?"

"No."

I saw red at his refusal, but ploughed on and sauntered over to him. That's where I tested my womanly wiles on the man I'd jut begun to know inside and out. Over his Guardian's robe I splayed my hands, touching warmth. I'd always read about bodice-ripped ladies "innocently" using charm and sex to get what they wanted, and scoffed about it even to this day. What man would actually fall for such a weak ploy, I usually thought, and reached for another, hopefully more serious book to get lost into. However, now that I did need to change Ron's mind, the only plan that had popped into my head had ben the tried-and-hopefully-true method of yore. I prayed it worked.

Ron's taut frame began to soften under my fingertips, and as I reached his neck, his head lolled to the front, his eyes closing of their own volition. Charm seemed to work, until, "It's not going to work, Hermione."

Incensed that he'd found me out, my hands left him as I pushed away, raging aloud. "I do have to work, Ron! At least show up, pretend _something_ is progressing."

He lunged and grasped one of my hands before I was too far away—"Wait just a second"—and bit his lips in apparent debate. "Okay," he conceded finally, "we'll nip to the Ministry real quick, but that's it. We can't be seen there too long."

I almost couldn't believe that he'd allow me even that. With a thankful smile I nodded my head and stepped into the circle of his arms. "Thank you."

Ron sighed and pecked me quickly. "I think this'll be my biggest mistake yet."

#

When I was six years old, my parents took me to work. In truth I was supposed to be shadowing my father to report how much of a hero he was to me for school, but mum was still dad's assistant then and so I followed them both through gum operations and root canal treatments. I loved it. Dad was a hero to them all and mum was his trusty sidekick. They didn't even need to talk to each other: mum handed dad the tools he needed and dad merely spoke the various teeth numbers or measurements that mum wrote next to the diagrams. It was like they were one and the same and only needed one another for completion.

Those days are now over for mum is now a dentist in her own right as well, but in life the two of them are still two parts of a whole. They still complete one another. It used to drive me nuts that they seemed to know everything about the other.

Until I met Ron, I'd never understood a kind of understanding that went deeper than the skin. Admittedly, Ron and I had bickered a lot in our days, but even then those maddening sessions had been about understanding each other but testing or being un- or knowingly obtuse about each other. All rather normal for us.

I'd never been very enthusiastic about working with Ron, thinking he was a slob and deserved to work with another slob like Harry. Sure, I'd had pity on them both sometimes, but I'd never been very much impressed with Ron's handiwork in particular, though I had always encouraged him to get better. Then the war had come, and maturity and circumstance had changed his behaviour, and I'd found myself with a real perfectionist mastermind bent on sharp results. That had boggled the mind. Unfortunately, I hadn't had much time to discover this new Ron, for we were assigned to command different troops.

Now I had the chance to study another Ron entirely: one of the most frighteningly gifted men on earth. Over and over I watched from the sidelines as he placated and battled against several Mages. What struck me was how alike Guardian was from Mage. Oh, not in intention, but rather in power. Mages truly were the antithesis of Guardians–I felt it in my bones. I had to repeatedly fight against nausea like the best of them, had to be careful to stay stooped right where I wouldn't be seen. Remaining quiet was the most difficult feat I'd ever had to accomplish. My brain wanted to explode and here I had to breathe quietly and slowly and swallow my helpless little noises. Willpower alone kept me silent through it all, again and again.

"Hey," Ron's voice prodded me softly after some time. It was only then that I realised all battle sounds had died some time ago. I crouched at the far end of some back alley amid Dumpsters and overflowing trash. This was… the fourth site we'd Apparated to. Ron was sweating from the exertion they'd all tolled on him. Now he pulled me up, holding me steady when I swayed.

A fleeting expression passed through his eyes even as he grinned. "I'm tired of this. Let's go to the Ministry."

#

Silken fire travelled clear down through every nerve ending Ginny possessed, obliterating any rational thought she should have had at the sheer stupidity of what she was allowing. Mindlessly, though, she clutched Harry's shirt, drawing him closer to her yet. He remained rooted fast, though, with his eyes wide open, and kissed with what she qualified as half-enthusiasm. _Dammit_, she thought, and pressed herself toe-to-breast against him, seeking hotly. _Don't shut me out, not now, please God don't shut me–_

He cradled her face, eyes closing of their own volition, but he stayed distant even as he licked and bit and she did the same.

Then he sighed and everything was over. With a heavy hand on her chest, he pushed Ginny an arm's length away and then silently turned toward her bedroom door intently, leaving her gaping and gulping air in his wake.

"That's it?" Ginny cried after him. "You just kiss me and leave like nothing happened?"

Harry halted just beyond her door and turned back around. A frown marred his forehead, and then he touched his mouth with idle fingertips. Ginny knew exactly what he touched–her own mouth tingled and burned. Slowly he met her glare, as if afraid to lock eyes with hers, and dropped his arm. "I think you've answered the question. It _is_ about us." Then he turned once more and left with an air of finality.

Ginny could only shout after him as he locked himself into her bathroom. "Yeah? Well you've answered it, too!"

#

When Harry reappeared at last, dressed, his hair still damp, and a closed-off expression painted onto his face, Ginny was at the stove, slapping pancakes onto a plate that she shoved at him. "Here you go. Enjoy." And she, in turn, fled around the corner and into her bathroom. The showerhead hissed to life again.

Fifteen minutes later, they were both ready. Harry made the mistake of taking her elbow, meaning to Side-Along Disapparate with her. Ginny, however, hissed and shoved, producing her wand with a pointed glare. "So. Where to?" she bit out.

His face fell. God, what a mess. This wasn't supposed to happen to them. Investing too much into each other could be disastrous, to say the least. So why did he feel like crap? "Um, the hospital, and then we can hit the historian's again," he said as neutrally as possible, but it was hard to keep everything bottled in. He had a right to emotions, too.

She nodded sharply and disappeared under his nose. A second later he had joined her, but already she was marching resolutely toward the historian's room, bypassing the desk nurse who sputtered a storm after her. Harry shrugged distractedly at her as he jogged after Ginny, who stopped just outside a well-lit room. The only patient, Bert Clarke, was sitting up and eating a large bowl of jello. Laid out on the adjustable bedside table was the morning _Prophet_.

Ginny swooped in. "Good morning, Mr Clarke."

His spoon clattered to the table, and he frowned. "_You_. You were here last night. I told you everything I know."

Harry closed the door behind him with a soft click, willing Ginny to come off her high horses. "Not exactly," he said, taking a cleansing breath.

"I don't understand," Clarke said with a shake of his head.

Ginny crossed her arms on her chest and leaned her hip against the windowsill. "What about the book? As a historian you must know what your shelves contain," she pointed out. Smoothly she ploughed on. "What book was the man referring to when he… began asking questions?"

Underneath the table, Harry saw Clarke wringing his hands. Good, they were getting somewhere. "What was so important to the man?" he prodded gently. "I'm Hermione Granger's fiancé. Whatever concerns her, concerns me. I want to find her."

Ginny gazed outside, her body gone rigid.

Clarke glanced up quizzically. Harry tore his gaze from Ginny's back. "She's disappeared," he explained succintly. The older man's eyes widened, and the wringing of hands redoubled.

After a breath, Clarke slowly unlocked his fingers and licked his lips, nervosity evident in his drawn features. "There was… Miss Granger asked me some questions a few days ago about an ancient prophecy that could be found in the book… _Mysterious Magical Orders: From the Druids to the Nazis and Beyond_, was the volume's title… and the prophecy was _The Oldest Prophecy_, otherwise known as _The Legend of the Guardian_. Auror Buchanan–he's from the Arson department if I'm not mistaken–was there to collect the book as evidence of the fire when we talked about it. The next day he came to my office and asked what it said."

When he wouldn't answer, Buchanan had left. Shortly thereafter, someone dressed in what had appeared to Clarke as dark hooded ceremonial robes had appeared and demanded the same question. Keeping quiet had earned him his resulting stay in the hospital.

Clarke's brow furrowed thoughtfully. "The robes were the same as Honos's and the one who flamed my lab."

Instantly, Harry snapped up. "Who's Honos?"

Clarke sighed. "The man who saved me in the fire. You saw the clean spot?" Harry and Ginny both nodded. "That's where I stood."

Harry sensed Clarke was about to add something, though it seemed to bother him. "What?" he asked the man.

Clarke bit his lip. "There's something else. I spoke of this to Miss Granger. I think they were both… superpowered." He put up a hand, warding off any interruptions they might have offered. "I think Honos is a Guardian."

Ginny whirled. "You mean like a guardian angel?" She snorted derisively. Harry almost heard her think out loud: _What next? Jesus Christ himself?_

"No." Clarke narrowed his eyes at her. "Rather like the Guardian Brotherhood. The prophecy spoke of it."

Ginny cocked her head, pursing her lips. Harry blinked. "What?"

"The Legends?" Ginny said. "Come now, Mr Clarke, they're fairytales."

He stared at her hard, making her feel smaller and insignificant. "Have you ever seen a mere witch or wizard ward off a Fiendfyre spell?"

She and Harry gaped, and locked eyes.

"That's right. And the last I saw of Miss Granger was after my attack, in my lab."

A beat passed, and then Harry tore his gaze from Ginny's. "Where can we find this Honos?" Silently he noted all the information he'd just gleaned: Honos, Guardian Brotherhood, Auror Buchanan–Arson department, Mage Society, _Oldest Prophecy_, _Legend of the Guardian_, _Mysterious Magical Orders_.

Brows raised high, Clarke guffawed. "You think _I_ know?" But suddenly a pensive expression overtook his face as he whispered feverishly to himself. Harry thought he heard the words "Odin" and "warriors", but couldn't be sure. "Ha," Clarke uttered after a time. Then, more excitedly, "_Ha!_"

Ginny bristled. "What?"

Clarke raised sparkling eyes. He looked ten years younger in that moment of triumph. "I think you may find him in Valhalla."

Harry's hope was dashed. Just like that. "Valhalla?" he asked faintly. "What the–"

Ginny rolled her eyes heavenward. "I think the man may have been hit on the head too hard and too many times." Indeed, Harry was beginning to have second thoughts about questioning the man. Maybe it wasn't such a great idea after all.

"No," the man himself answered. "The prophecy says specifically '_children of Odin_' in talking about the Brotherhood. Odin's 'children', or army, are said to reside in Valhalla."

"Right. And where do you suppose this Valhalla is hidden?" Ginny said.

"Certainly not out in the open," Clarke replied.

A very strange concept lurked in the back of Harry's head. "Out in the open," he murmured to himself. "Inside the closed." _What's closed?_ he though suddenly, and in his mind's eye he saw the closed. Locked doors, barren houses and buildings, mausoleums… earth. "Underground," he said louder then, feeling chilled of a sudden. Yes, it had to be in the ground.

Clarke made an "hmph" sound and nodded slowly. "Yes, it's plausible."

"If it was Scrambled and Untraceable, if there was no other mode of entry, a person would be hard-pressed to Apparate to it accurately," Harry continued, catching Ginny's eye again. _Like Syn Wyngyn, with talismans_. He would be willing to bet that she'd come to the same conclusion, for her eyes shone with sharp understanding and an even stronger urge to get moving.

"What does he look like? Honos," Harry specified, vibrating with the same kind of urgency that she displayed.

The older man lifted a shoulder. "Never seen him close like. But he's tall. Lean. Seems young. Fierce."

"What's Buchanan's first name?"

Clarke frowned in remembrance. "Kyle, I think."

Already Ginny was moving. Harry grasped her arm as she passed him. "Thank you," he shot over his shoulder.

"Ministry?" Ginny asked as they walked briskly toward the entrance hall of the hospital.

Harry gave a nod and then stopped once they were inside the secured hall. "Yes. We need to find this Buchanan and the prophecy. That way we'll know what Hermione knew and it might help us find her."

Every second they were getting closer to her, he could feel it in his bones.

#

"You'll have to wear normal clothes, of course. And uncover your hair."

Call me childish, but I really didn't want to look out of place in an environment that prided itself on its dividuality and nothing else. Okay, so maybe I was afraid of attracting undue attention to ourselves. That was the point.

Ron stared down at himself like he'd never seen his attire before now, and hesitated for a moment, but finally nodded and Transfigured his Guardian robes.

"Auror?" was my guffawed reaction.

He shrugged good-naturedly and grinned. "I always wanted to be one, remember? And I'll fit right in."

Of course he would. Ron looked and acted like a leader. As he took my hand and we side-along Disapparated over the distance that separated Newcastle from London, I thought up a lie–_Liar! Lawyer! Liar!_–to explain his presence with me should anyone ask. Secretaries liked to gossip and legal secretaries especially–I often wondered how they got any work done on a busy day, but they somehow managed to juggle chatter and long dictations. Such a fine specimen of a man would surely make those tongues go wagging.

When we finally reached our destination­–the Ministry–I had it. "You're Jack Bailey from the Arson department."

Ron nodded imperceptibly, his attention already on the milling crowd around us. It was nearing the end of the day–Friday–and many Ministry employees had accumulated bank time during the week, thus enabling them to start the weekend early. Ron's body had tautened just that little bit that told me everyone was suspect. Who would recognise him? Who would attack? Who would stop and stare too long? I watched, too, fascinated by his focus, but sensed nothing out of the ordinary. This was my scene, I knew it well.

"Is there–" I began, only to be interrupted by Ron's brusque grip and pull on my arm that urged me to move like we should.

"Come on," he said tightly as we ploughed counter-current through people. Ron's demeanor was getting to me. What could he sense that I could not?

This was insane. "Ron, hold on," I said, planting my feet and tugging my arm free.

Ron whirled and damn near snarled in my face. "I'm Jack, remember?"

"Then unhand me," I hissed, "and stop acting like this. I'm a lawyer and you're an Auror and _that's it_." That meant no holding hands.

He took a deep, calming breath, but didn't turn to continue. "They're here," he breathed tensely and held me in place when I would have stared over my shoulder. "Harry and Ginny," he explained. "They must be looking for you."

Horrified, I couldn't even move. "What?" I cried hoarsely, and then caught the full meaning of _They're here_. They would see him, I was sure of it. He towered over most and his shock of ginger hair drew the eye. "You need to cover your head. Get low. They'll see you!"

"No. We need to move. Now."

We ran-walked toward the emptying lifts. When I turned, I suddenly saw him, Harry, narrow his eyes as his eyes nearly touched us. Then the lift doors closed and I saw no more of him.

#

Ginny touched his shoulder and drew his attention back to her. "Come on, I just registered our wands. We're good to go."

Neither speaking nor acknowledging anything she'd said, Harry just moved forward like an automaton toward the lifts, a curious emptiness about him. Straight gaze, faraway eyes, creased brows.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly as they slowly ploughed through the throngs of workers and visitors.

"There's something weird going on. I thought I just saw Ron."

"Sorry," she offered to a man she'd just bumped into. To Harry she responded, "Believe me, I'd know if he worked at the Ministry." Her father and brother would make sure their Weasley pride was known.

He shook his head as if to clear it. "I know, it's just… I saw someone who might have looked like him. Tall, red hair…" They boarded the lift and, sensing her silence and discomfort, he turned his head. And slammed into pity. "Dammit, Gin, I'm not going around the bend. Trust me."

They were silent the rest of the ride.

#

"Buchanan?" The buxom secretary lifted thin eyebrows even as she gazed at him through lowered lashes. "You're not the first to ask. Mark over at Employment said he hasn't worked for us in years. Left in the middle of an operation. I heard from an Auror here that it went from batshit to hell and he might have wanted out. Lot of people died. 2006, Marc said it was. Why are you asking, Mr Potter?"

His name still went a long way into getting where and what he wanted. Point in fact: getting in-house information about ex-Auror Kyle Buchanan.

The secretary leaned forward, her way-out-there cleavage in excellent view. "Weren't you also an Auror, Mr Potter?" she asked in conspiring tones. "_Whyever_ would you quit a job that suited you so well?"

He heard a smothered snort a few steps away. Seated in a straight-back chair, Ginny pretended to read _Auror Eye_. She gave off the illusion well, except that her eyes moved too slowly.

Harry leaned his hip against the desk, smiling pleasantly at the blonde but keeping an eye on Ginny. "Better opportunities elsewhere, I'm afraid," he replied toothily.

The blonde's brilliant smile faltered as she glanced at the petite redhead in the sitting area. "Oh, of course," she said. Seeing that the other young woman was busy, she rallied nonetheless. "I'm just sorry I missed you before you left. I came here the month after." So she'd looked for the date of his resignation. Her well-kohled eyes told him how sorry she really was.

Ginny shot up after a moment, throwing the magazine she'd been reading away. Her eyes were narrowed and her hair gave her expression that much more fire. "You said someone asked about Buchanan. Who?"

The receptionist blinked, taken aback by the brusque interruption of what she clearly considered a private conversation. "Uh, who are you?"

Ginny didn't miss a beat. "Ginny Weasley. I'm Mr Potter's partner. Who asked about Buchanan?" Harry had to hand it to her; she was focused.

"Er…" The blonde hesitated and retreated back into her seat with a meek little blush. A mournful expression duelled with consideration in her face before she relented. "Well, I don't really know her name. She's in here often enough but…" Her hesitation was telling: she didn't really care. "All I know for sure is, she works in the Office of Law."

Harry's body tensed. "Hermione Granger?" If there was too much hope in his voice, he didn't care. Dammit, he needed to find her.

She pursed her lips. "That must be it. She's not really well-liked around here."

Nearly hanging over her desk, he demanded, "Does anybody know where Kyle Buchanan lives now?" he asked again. _Probably not_, he thought, but he had the worst hunch.

"Umm, well, if you asked Mark, he might be able to–"

"Call him. It's urgent."

#

The Aurors hadn't been able to glean much of anything definitive on the two attempts at Mr Clarke's life. In a way, it was reassuring that they would probably never know the complete truth about it. Rather, the mystery would be pushed to a storage room where foggy cases were relegated to gather dust. Quite a grim future, this case. No suspects, no cause of accident in both cases, no detailed reports. Dates, hours and claimant were all the known information they had. But the Brotherhood, and therefore Ron, was safe, and that mattered to me.

Patience is a virtue, apparently. I hate the saying, but it always pays off to be careful. I love being in control of the information, but I do a thorough research beforehand so I don't end up flat on my back. I knew one of the players on the gameboard–Ron–but that was about it and it wasn't enough to go on before I accused anyone. We had to be sure that Buchanan was our man before we moved, we had to find him one way or another, and we had to be careful about it all.

Either way, Ron and I ended up going to St. Mungo's together after our brief visit to the Ministry. Immediately as we Disapparated from the Ministry's golden foyer, I felt Ron's shoulders unlock and ease with relief.

"You okay?" I asked in a murmur, wanting to stop and feel his yielding warmth.

"I'm fine," Ron replied gruffly. "Just glad that's done. That was close."

"Would it be so bad if they'd seen us?" I mused aloud. To the nurse at the front desk I said, "We're here to see Mr Bert Clarke. Is he still in room 406?"

"It would," Ron said quietly.

The nurse looked down her glasses at the list of patients and murmured a Rearranging spell. "Ah, yes he is, although he might be up and about."

With a nod we were off, and I pressed Ron on, wondering about his comment. "If I'm right," Ron started, "Harry and Ginny are trying to find Buchanan to see if he might know something about your disappearance."

I snorted, unable to help myself. Know something? He knew everything about that moment! "They couldn't find him, could they?"

Ron threw me a sidelong glance that spoke volumes as the lift doors claimed us. "If I can't find him…" He shook his head grimly. "No. The Society's headquarters are likely much like ours. Untraceable, Scrambled, and all. But they could probably find something about his past," he added carefully.

The lift slowed and stopped, admitting a throng of passengers–nurses on break. Pressing myself closer to Ron, I lowered my voice so we wouldn't be overheard above the din of conversation. "What do you mean?"

"His past. Where he lived, how he lived, who he was," he explained just as quietly.

My brows lifted as I considered those possibilities. Then I nudged him. "You've done your research?"

The lift stopped a second time to let us out. Ron kept silent until we reached the relative silence of the corridor leading to Clarke's room. I'd already grown used to the secrecy thing. "Yeah."

"And?" I pressed him.

His hand tightened infinitesimally around mine. "And he didn't have it easy," he said shortly just as we reached the right door. It was open a crack, revealing a shaft of dying outdoors light. Someone shuffled at irregular intervals inside. I strained to see inside, but whoever was in there wasn't in my line of sight.

When Ron pushed the door open at last, Clarke turned his head sharply, concentration still etched onto his face. He wobbled visibly when he saw me and gripped something more solid than the braces that currently supported him. Then a brilliant smile broke out over his ruddy face. "You? I thought you'd disappeared!"

As I walked into the dull white-washed room I felt that kinship that linked Clarke and I, that understanding that made us so similar. "How are you, Mr Clarke?" I asked kindly.

He laughed lightly, gesturing to his braces as he sat. His high spirit as well as his fast healing was a relief. "Well, thank you. They told me I ought to move around, keep in shape." He nodded at Ron who stood off in the corner. "And who is that? Not your kidnapper, I hope," he said with a wink.

"Er…" I looked to Ron for some help, but the bugger wouldn't step in. "No. Auror Bailey and I," I started, remembering the name I'd stuck on him, "are working on a case together. He agreed to spend some time here before we went to lunch."

Clarke narrowed his eyes at Ron when he glanced back. Something in his demeanor had changed. _He knows_, my brain chanted dully. _He senses it somehow_. It was the height, the breadth, everything that made Ron stand out, save for the hair and perhaps the eyes. It wasn't enough to make alarms go off in Clarke's head, but he was intelligent and observant enough to see the other physical similarities between the Guardian Honos who'd saved him and the man before him now. My palms sweated. Meanwhile, Ron took the examination calmly.

And then it was over. I let out an audible breath, to which Ron responded with a subtle pointed look in my direction. "So would you mind answering some questions?" I asked at once in a rush.

"Ha," Clarke laughed, "you sound just like your fiancé and his partner."

Ron pushed himself off the wall in one graceful movement. "When were they here?"

Blinking, Clarke thought back. "I–they were here an hour ago, at least."

Just before they'd gone to the Ministry. Something was up. Apparently Ron thought so, too. "What did they ask? What did you say?" he demanded.

They'd wanted to know what he knew of my disappearance. Nothing. And then they'd asked what I'd been working on that could lead them to me. The prophecy. Buchanan. Clarke had led them to Buchanan, to the Employment department of the Ministry that would tell them the same thing they'd told me: he didn't work for them anymore. Naturally, Harry and Ginny would find it odd that the man was still passing himself off as an Auror and they'd give chase just like we were. And where would that lead them? To us.

Breaking away from the conversation, I studied Ron's reaction to this bit of news. How was he taking it? Nothing showed in apparence, but beneath… Yes, there was a bit of tension in his jaw, in how he held himself. It bothered him, but he was saving face by appearing relaxed for Mr Clarke's sake.

How uncanny. The four of us were looking for the same man, albeit for different reasons. Maybe it was time Ron showed up at last.

* * *

Author's note: Time to stretch my creating muscles...


	8. Headlong

**Author's note:** This chapter clocks in at 5,089 words. It's one of my shorter chapters, and yet I feel like this one's been tearing at me from every side. Admittedly, these past few weeks weren't exactly that great a time to write Guardian, specifically. I remember writing a lot in college while not being in the best of minds (_Forbidden Things_, _The Other Side_ and _Smoking Up Bloody Ashes_ come to mind) but I guess I just felt drained and incapable lately. I don't know if what little writing I got done suffered, but :cough: anyway. So here's chapter seven, with much to everyone who gave me words of comfort when I most needed it and who is still following this mammoth. I've been nudged a lot during this past month to get busy with the chapter so haha I guess I'm making some of you giddy with anticipation so I'll shut up now ;) Enjoy!

(By the way, I broke the 60K goal. Guess I'm aiming for... mm... 65K now?)

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVEN: HEADLONG**

The cabin was hidden deep within the woods, nearly swallowed by thick, greedy foliage. If they hadn't been looking specifically for the place, they would have surely missed it. Harry believed that was the point.

The shack gave him clear insight into what the man who had previously lived in it had been like. Secretive, obviously. Tidy. No-nonsense. This hadn't been a nice little cottage, a place to sit back and relax in. It had been a cabin, simply, a place where he'd awaited instructions between missions. Everyday objects still remained in place after years of disuse, untouched. An empty beer bottle or two, here, a bag of pistachios there, waiting indefinitely until the hovel's owner saw fit to return… if he ever returned. A good coating of dust had settled over these things and yet…

"Someone recently ate those nuts," Harry remarked upon closer inspection. Indeed, the dust had been marred there, as if someone had closed his fingers over the bag, and then returned it to the same spot with exact precision. But the finger smudges had betrayed him… or her. No telling how recent, but someone had been in the shack and hadn't turned it upside down in a searching fit. That someone had not been looking for Buchanan, but hadn't been a wayward trekker.

"Hermione?" Ginny asked distractedly while shuffling papers in Buchanan's desk. "You think she was here?"

"Nope. Buchanan himself." Ginny looked up sharply, ambling over. "See here?" He pointed to the table. "Who would eat pistachios but return it exactly to the same spot? He was here."

It seemed crazy to base his perception on a bag of pistachios, but then there'd been worse leads.

"When?"

Harry shrugged. "You found anything in those papers?"

Ginny returned to Buchanan's desk, pulling out a thick manila envelope and an informal-looking letter. Dangerous missions were kept hush-hush within the Ministry. Harry stepped closer, inspecting the content of the letter. "A location and a year. Mallaig, 2002."

Harry's brows rose in surprise. "His last mission?"

She nodded, unfolding a tourist's map that had been slipped inside the envelope. "That's Mallaig," she said, pointing to a dot that had been circled in red near a cross symbol. "And that's the holy isle of Iona," she added, answering his unspoken question.

Harry snorted. "Funny how a massacre allegedly took place so close to God."

But Ginny wasn't listening to his dry humour. Rummaging through the papers again, she finally narrowed her eyes at the cramped handwriting of one Auror to another. "Senior Auror Kurtz ordered Buchanan to Mallaig on January 5th, 2002." Remembering her own days of battle in teeth-chattering weather, she shivered. "Man, I feel for Buchanan," she said with feeling.

Glancing over with mild amusement, Harry plucked the order from her fingers and read: "_'… given total control of any situation that may prevent itself.'_ Obviously, he didn't do his job so well if the entire team died there under his command." Except Buchanan. Then Harry furrowed his brow in surprise. "There's no mention of what was going down there. Either Buchanan already knew what he was getting himself into or he didn't have a clue."

They both had much experience with the second notion. Working for an organisation of any sort – governmental or not – they had both heard, read and seen their fair share of half-truths "for your own sake." Should they be captured at any point during the mission, they wouldn't know the stakes and details. Soldiers, they were, to the very end.

Harry glanced at Ginny, who was absorbed in her work beside him, and hated that she was being used – and would be used – thus so often. Theirs was an organisation, after all, and she would be a tremendous asset to it once fully trained. He almost didn't want to keep helping her. Almost.

Racking his throat, Harry tore his gaze from her and, in the same motion, folded the map again and slipped it inside his trouser pocket. They would surely need it later to locate Mallaig precisely. "Come on," he said, "we'd better get moving." It was getting dark and they had classes and duties to go to.

Ginny scrambled to neaten her mess of paper clippings and official documents in the desk drawers where she'd found them, and then followed him outside.

Sunlight was scarse in the woods, even scarser now that the sun had begun to set. Dead leaves crunched under their feet while a soft breeze blew through the wild Highland grove. Harry knew that, a mere few hundred kilometres away, a suburban cityscape began. Here in these parts, however, one easily became overcome with nature's leisurely lifestyle. So much so, in fact, that a contented silence settled between Harry and Ginny. For nothing in the world would he have shattered it with his big fat mouth.

_This morning just needs to be erased_, Harry thought ruefully. Sometimes he just didn't think before he ran his mouth off. Like now. Except now was good. The quiet, the calm, the time for reflection… good things. He would not jam his foot in it for all the world. Or do something utterly too spontaneous and terrifying.

Just thinking about a potential mistake made him sweat, although there was a bit of something nice about it. It was just… he and Ginny couldn't do that, not to Ron, not to Hermione, and certainly not to themselves. Not while he felt so goddamned responsible for everyone involved.

Ginny jarred him out of his black thoughts by touching his hand that clutched his wand. "Um, when were you planning on Disapparating?" she inquired with big apologetic eyes, reminding him once more why things could–but shouldn't–happen. Ginny was waving the white flag and he could only breathe in relief. As long as he didn't let loose his inner jerk again, they were both safe from tempting each other's temperamental monsters.

"Sorry, I just…"

"Yeah."

They fell into step with each other. Harry could feel all the heat Ginny exuded. Too much. Not enough.

"Okay. Now." They Disapparated, nearly touching.

#

The grille doors opened and Ron indicated an empty securised Apparition section. I imagined he was powerful enough to forgo that particular technicality, even such powerful anti-Apparition spells as there were around the Ministry, but then the idea was _not_ to attract undue attention to ourselves. So we stepped into the designated circle. Ron took us just outside in a backstreet, well away from cars and pedestrians.

"Now what?" I asked, crossing my arms against the nightly chill that permeated the crisp air.

Around us, a thin sheen of droplets fluttered down to the ground. Already the asphalt was wet enough to reflect the darkening sky and the flickering lamplights of the main boulevard. Harder rain had already fallen. An ordinary London evening.

Ron Transfigurated his clothes back to their previous state of long, dark robe and drawn hood, jamming his hands into his large side pockets.

"Now I'm here," a voice spoke clearly out of the darkness, answering me.

We both whirled around. Buchanan was here.

Edging out of the darkness, he looked tense, staring out of narrowed black eyes. The latter flickered every so often, taking in our surroundings like a deer would in an open field. He wore somber robes like Ron, but his hood was off in an oddly capitulating way. "You're all looking for me," he drawled. "I had to choose who to show myself to. Since you probably already know or deduced at least half the truth, here I am."

#

"I'll wait for you after class?"

It was the first time since she'd asked to leave the forest that Ginny had spoken. Even as Harry had led her through the maze of Syn Wyngyn's hallways and kept a tense one-sided conversation, she'd been quiet and even detached, as though he weren't even there and she had nowhere she cared to go.

When it had come to part before her classroom, she'd even nodded wordlessly and walked indolently into her classroom. But now, mere seconds later when Harry had already taken a few steps to walk away, she clutched the doorframe, her big doe eyes fixed on him with something that felt like she were clutching _him_.

Before Harry could even take a breath to answer her query, however, the resounding voice of their director rose throughout the building. "HARRY POTTER, MY OFFICE PLEASE!"

Harry sighed. Being called was never good. "I'd better go," he muttered before turning away.

"Will you–"

"I'll be there," he shot over his shoulder distractedly. Keeny's diatribe could take long enough. Or else he could send her a note saying to meet him later.

Well, he'd work something out.

#

She waited for him just outside the classroom's closed door. Glancing at his watch, Harry surmised that it must have been close to a half-hour since her class had ended, and he hadn't been able to send her a note. She had obviously slid down to the floor at some point, clutching her battered leather bookbag loosely in her lap, and kicked back. Her eyes were closed and her head rested back against the concrete wall next to the doorknob.

_It must be full dark_, he surprised himself thinking. Normally day and night had no real meaning to him besides light and lack of lack. Not that there were any windows at Syn Wyngyn. The body was thus fooled into not producing the dopamine necessary for the onset of sleep. He went home when he wasn't needed at school or work, not when he needed sleep. Sleep was a notion his body had learned to moderate through intense training. When on the field, one learned early on to keep alert at all times. The one split second when an heinous or suspicious act occured, you needed to be fully awake and do what you had to do when you had to do it. You learned to relax only when you were home.

Ginny's body would soon learn all the hardships it had never encountered in her life before, even during the wizarding war. Would she crack? He knew, without a shade of a doubt, that she wouldn't. But a man could hope. For the best. No harm, no foul, nothing to be ashamed of yet this to be proud of: her successful journey thus far.

He also knew she wouldn't think of it that way.

Harry stooped down to call her softly. "Gin hon."

She stirred groggily, opening tired brown eyes. "Hey," she greeted with a yawn. "How did it go?"

"Fantastic." He scowled. "Now Keeny thinks I'm making you slack off," he retorted blandly.

She paused mid-yawn, eyes popping wide open. "_What?_ Where does he get that idea?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Who the hell knows." Then, suddenly, he sought her eyes deliberately, anxiety apparent in their depths. "_Do_ I make you slack off? Are you still holding well in your classes?"

Now she directed her incredulity at him. "What makes you think I'm not?"

Harry looked away, shrugging. "Just asking."

Yet she still pursed her lips and glared. "You know me better than that."

And the truth was, he really did. "All right. We'd better get some rest." There was no question where he would sleep. He just couldn't stand the thought of going back to his house and facing all of _her_ stuff. Helping Ginny up, he thought he wasn't being fair to her, imposing himself like that, but… where else could he go? Who would welcome him but her? No one.

And although that was a depressing and slightly alarming thought–did she think he was using her?–it also uplifted him. He hadn't slept as well as in Ginny's bed in a long time.

But she wouldn't always be there to be his landing cushion.

#

Being in Buchanan's presence is like playing with fire with an infinite supply of oxygen to feed it. He scorched. He made you feel constantly in danger, even when all that promise of power was actually banked. He made you feel unsettled, as if, whatever you did, he'd get you trapped.

As he calmly gazed at us out of the darkness, however, a bit of that edge that made his presence unsavory had slipped. Beyond that hard shell was… well, I couldn't quite place it, but he definitely looked more human than the few times I'd been in his presence.

The air electrified around us as I felt Ron tense beside me. "What do you want?" he growled at our intruder, poised to protect me.

Buchanan looked at us silently a moment longer–first me, then Ron–a shadow passing over his eyes. "Nothing like that," he replied, nodding to Ron's hand that grasped my arm tight.

Ron only squeezed harder. "Forgive me for not trusting you, Mage," he said, snarling out the last as if tasted bitter on his tongue. "Talk."

"It's not how you think, Guardian."

Ron snorted, then stiffened at a slithering sound, listening. Cat. He relaxed. "You know what I am. That makes you one of them in my book. Considering how you fought me before, that just cinches it."

Buchanan offered a toothy smile that didn't reach his eyes. They were hard, unyielding. "Suit yourself. Your girlfriend can tell you I'm not about to hex you."

Whipping his head round to me, Ron gave me a searching glance, then whipped back, tightening yet more in readiness.

Buchanan sighed. "It's starting to drive you mad. I see."

"Mind your own business. I repeat, what do you want?"

The other man seemed to consider Ron, then slid his black gaze to me, narrowing his eyes in deliberation. Then he moved, fishing something out of his pocket.

The parchment!

His eyes locked onto mine. "You have a question for me, Miss Granger. The answer is no. I gave the Society a page from my family's copy of the _Codex Ardmachanus_."

Oh, wow. That one, also called the _Book of Armagh_, had supposedly belonged to St. Patrick himself. And he'd just _chucked one page away?_ Was he mad?

All right, so that battle didn't belong in the here and now. But boy that wounded my inner bookworm.

"None of them speak Gaelic, so they won't be the wiser," he continued, raising a brow to acknowledge my disbelief. "But you do."

I gaped a long time at this development–the fact that he'd deliberately withheld information he'd obviously been given the mission to acquire. Implication after implication ran havoc through my brain until they collided and fused and became other ideas. This meant so many things, of which neither Ron nor I had thought. It meant he was working solo, it meant he was forsaking what he had become, it meant he was… reaching out, asking for help.

Yet so many supposedly go that way and then betray those who trust them. I certainly knew I wouldn't make the easy mistake to trust him blindly. One glance proved Ron wouldn't, either.

"Why the change of heart?" he asked the other, suspicion making him sound harsh, rough. Buchanan was right, this whole situation was weighing on him. _I_ was weighing on him.

Silence settled on the night as Buchanan smoothed his thumb over the folded, priceless parchment, seeming to mull over his words. "Don't you wonder why our Elders want this particular prophecy so badly?" he said after a time.

Ron scowled. Of course he'd wondered, I thought. But he'd been well conditioned into ignoring his own individual thought processes. "Yours want to annihilate," Ron ground out through gritted teeth. "Mine want to protect what you'd destroy."

The response sounded so rehearsed, I visibly winced. Where was the headstrong, bullheaded boy who'd always taken his own stance on matters of importance to him, no matter the inanity? Where was that opiniated mind that would have responded as bluntly as possible?

I did it. I rounded on Ron and scowled. "Really? Is that really what _you_ think, or rather some trope you've assimilated since becoming–"

I stopped when pain lanced through my arm. Yelping, I jerked back, but the effort was futile. It was like trying to remove a hairpin from a dried cement block. Useless. And then the pain stopped, and I looked up through a sheen of hot tears, wondering _Why, why?_

Wide-eyed, Ron stared back, first in surprise, then confusion, and finally dawning guilt. "My God, 'Mione, I don't know–"

"I know," Buchanan cut in. "I think you do, too."

Slowly Ron turned to face the other man and studied him several seconds. Neither spoke, but vague understanding–or perhaps a sliver of trust–passed between them. I saw them both as just the essence of what they were: two men in doubt.

I can't say as I understood the silent male conversation, nor its general lines. They were speaking a foreign language, that one where men speak all they can't or won't translate aloud. Fear, doubts, questions. As a woman, I dared not venture into what they might be saying. Leaning my shoulder against the wet brick wall next to me, I merely watched from the dim light.

Suddenly Ron sighed out of the conversation. "I can't," he muttered so softly I almost didn't hear.

"What have you got to lose?" Buchanan replied in as quiet a whisper.

Ron glanced my way, not-quite-disguised anguish stretching his lips and marring his forehead. That look took my breath away–I'd never seen Ron's face take on this expression. Despair, pure and unadulterated. He faced Buchanan again.

Buchanan followed where Ron's glance had taken him, and stared at me. To Ron he said, "She's not like us."

Whatever. I pushed away from the wall. After all, they weren't speaking Man anymore. "I'm plenty like you."

He snorted. "Excuse me, but one Guardian or one Mage would make mincemeat of you."

"I was in the war. What are you planning?"

He chose to ignore the last. "The war nearly killed your boyfriend."

"So that's what I have to do to be one of you? Push myself nearly to the brink of death?" God! The man incensed me. What did he see? A ragdoll?

"Hey, don't let me stop you."

Ron came between us before I could retort or explode. I think it would have been both. "Wait wait wait. She's quite bright."

Buchanan strained around him to fix me with a skeptical eye. "Been trudging through crime scenes unattended again, Miss Granger? Or do you do that only when an ex-Auror's around?" Noting my blotchy red face, he grinned like only triumphant men could, and turned back to Ron. "She'd be a nuisance to you. I know this firsthand."

Narrowing his eyes, Ron shook his head. "She's in danger."

"You _thought_ she was in danger from me," Buchanan corrected quite agreeably. "That problem's quite resolved now."

Dammit, I wanted to thump the grinning bastard.

Ron cut through my mental tirade. "How do I know you're not setting us up?" He shook his head decisively. "No, Hermione stays with me."

Buchanan shrugged carelessly. "It's your funeral." Slipping his hood over his head, he said, "I'd best be heading back. We'll talk again… Honos."

As soon as he had popped out–I cringed, bile rising to my throat–I rounded on Ron, a bit green around the gills but determined nonetheless. "What did you just get us into?"

#

"Y'know, you'll have to start paying rent if you keep sleeping here," Ginny called from the bathroom, stepping into her pyjama pants. Wincing at the nervous tremor in her voice, she then reached for the black tee shirt–white would just be risqué without a bra–and slipped it on.

She'd meant for the lighthearted joke to help her face reality without skipping nerves and bounding heart. Of course, she'd slept with him the previous night, but he'd been too tired to care. For that matter, _did_ he want to sleep in her bed tonight? Would he prefer the couch that, admittedly, was comfortable enough? Or would he not mind her bed and they'd sleep like two platonic best friends?

She knew she wasn't his best friend. She doubted she could call herself his friend. Past circumstances had made them quite close–his kissing her in her fifth year had opened the door to a beautiful relationship and friendship–but then… he'd thought too hard. Bitterness still crippled her though she was loath to admit it to anyone who asked, but he had re-entered her life recently and now… now he was as close as she allowed him, and he her.

A muffled sigh sounded from her room. "Sorry, tonight's the last."

Ginny frowned and looked up. Her reflection stared back at her. Had she sounded annoyed? Perplexed, she pushed the door open. Harry was already in bed, arms crossed behind his head. At her entrance, his head lolled to her side, inquiring.

"I didn't mean it that way," she offered quietly. "Stay as long as you want."

A wry smile twisted his lips. "Thanks, Gin."

They stared.

Harry turned his head, and closed his eyes. "I won't eat you. Promise."

A nervous laugh racked her. "Sorry," she wheezed, mortified. "I haven't had a completely awake man in my bed in a while."

Though he'd been quite immobile before, Harry now seemed frozen in time. A long moment passed before he swallowed visibly, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Oh." The single word sounded far deeper than she'd ever heard it.

"I mean," Ginny amended quickly, "it doesn't bother me. Really. Tired or not. It was all… all right." Goodness, she was blabbering! Running a hand through her hair, Ginny attempted to regain control of herself. "I shouldn't have said that," she muttered to herself under her breath. "Forget I said anything, okay? We'll just sleep." _Together_, her mind, her sick, sick mind, added.

Harry had rolled his head toward her at some point during her diatribe. Face flushed, she was acutely aware of his searching gaze planted on her. "Gin."

"What?" she snapped as she climbed into bed. It seemed like turning her back on him might be best. "And stop calling me that," she added owlishly.

The bed creaked as Harry moved. Suddenly he was hovering over her shoulder. With a groan, Ginny burrowed deeper into her pillow, hoping to block him out. "Look, I–if it makes you uncomfortable…"

"Hmph."

A soft snort. "Very eloquent. Run that by me again?" She could hear the grin in his tone.

"Ugh!" With a roll she was suddenly underneath him, and as he lost his precarious balance he planted his hands on either side of her and nearly got a mouthful of pillow.

Rendered momentarily speechless, Ginny blinked up at him. Then she pushed. "Get off me." Her heart, however, wasn't it in, and Harry didn't move an inch. He only looked.

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. Ginny wasn't sure she believed in that, but Harry, when he allowed it, when he wasn't too focused on others to let himself feel, could be read almost like an open book. In his expression she read doubt, guilt. In his locked shoulders she sensed tension, a fork in the road. Would he choose the well-travelled path? Her eyes slammed back to his. They locked onto hers, intense.

Her heart suddenly in her throat, deafening, she waited.

And waited.

He moved his head imperceptibly, and then stopped. Ginny didn't.

#

_I'll tell you when we're in the Coven._

Patience is not really one of my strong suits. I'm typically a go-getter when it comes to gaining information about a new lead, or new Muggle or Wizarding insurance laws. Naturally curious, I'll flip through my collection of law books to jog my memory or engineering reference texts to discover new ways houses should be built. I'll consult oil transportation specialists to learn the proper way to fill a tank. Mistakes are made, insurance companies scramble every which way, attorneys need to prosecute or defend. Information is power, but it's how you use it that makes you powerful. I think that's why people call us liars; we're able to manipulate the information given us.

Because I wasn't now given the information in a timely manner, places inside my head were becoming annoyed. This wasn't something I could find in a book. I _could_ make assumptions, but then all of them would be way exaggerated. I wanted truth, now.

I wouldn't get it.

Stealthing through the Coven's long halls with Ron, I felt untouchable. He'd proven time and again that he was capable of protecting with ten times the magical power any wizard should possess, hadn't he?

Sometimes we're too confident.

We were right there, right in front of Ron's cell door, when a corporeal shadow broke away from what I hadn't even deemed to be more than absence of light.

She couldn't be more than eighteen.

"You're making a big mistake."

She _was_ a force to be reckoned with. Bile rose in my mouth just as my head hit the floor.

#

_Yes_.

Heart beating an erratic tattoo in her chest, Ginny lay her head back down on her pillow and sighed when Harry followed. His eyes closed, he gave with an abandon she hadn't thought him willing to display. He gave so much more than she'd hoped for. He took, too, took like a starving man finally given that which he desired. Framed by him, Ginny finally dared to let go of the world and her deceits, and touched him. Touch generated friction, and suddenly she had skin and hair under her fingers and yet, she didn't even feel all of that.

_Yes. _Harry's lips. His warmth, his nips, his tongue. His kiss. Merlin, she'd missed him.

Breath in, and Harry's tongue sought the crevice on the side of her mouth where bottom and top lips met. It seemed like time had stopped just for them. No matter how _much_ of it had passed since Harry's dull parting words had seared her chest to the quick, now… now those words still hurt but at least here he was. Once more she could touch him without feeling the harsh sting of emotional distance.

Breath out, and slowly Harry pulled away.

Silence. Dark hooded eyes. Dark flush. Deep breaths.

"Shouldn't–"

"Don't you dare." Ginny scowled.

A faint smile tugged at his lips before it vanished. "I was going to say that I shouldn't sleep here," he said gravely, stroking her hair and moving away slowly.

"No, wait." Desperately, Ginny scrambled after him and clutched at his hand just as he got off the bed.

He paused, looking back inquiringly, green eyes striking in the dim lighting of her ceiling fixture.

"I mean… that is… you don't have to… don't go. We'll just sleep." Biting her lip, Ginny resolved to beg for the first time in Merlin knew how long. In a quiet tone, she added, "Please, don't go."

For a moment, nothing, and then…

"Please," she murmured.

Breath in, quickly out. "Okay."

#

Confidence is an insidious poison. The worst burn is probably discovering you're not that safe with your trusted safety net. Your innards will twist, your throat will feel too tight, and you'll pray to all that's holy and maybe even not for a miracle, a Time Turner, _anything_, to fall into your hand and save you. Save. Safe. Safety. A vicious circle, but then we all live vicariously through our mistakes.

I was cold.

When I opened my eyes, white flooded my retinas and I thought I couldn't see for a moment.

Emptiness. Was this heaven? I dared turn my head. Everything was so… devoid. Niggling at the back of my mind, however, was a feeling. I hadn't been here before, but this place looked vaguely familiar…

Ron!

His name, fished from the recesses of my memory, seemed to bring lucidity to the forefront. I now remembered my last moments of clarity. I'd been with Ron, about to enter his cell… that looked so like this room. I was still in the Coven, somewhere.

Was was this place? Where was Ron? What did the Brotherhood want with me? Sitting up suddenly, I found myself face-to-face with a lithe, hooded figure that exuded so much power that she took my breath away. _She_. Her long, graceful fingers were clasped together loosely before her in a peaceful gesture, but she didn't fool me. She did not want me here.

The young girl? No…

"Who are you?" Definitely not the young girl. This woman spoke with experienced grace and poise.

Though the room was sparse, I could now see edges. Ceiling, walls and floor delineated themselves, and I saw that I had been brought into a large, circular room. The ceiling reached extravagant heights, and I sat on an elevated dais in the middle of the room.

Remembering the woman's query after my visual exploration, I snapped my gaze back to her. She hadn't moved an inch. Eerie. "Er, Hermione–Hermione Granger."

She said nothing, but performed a silent spell that, strangely, didn't make me feel nauseous. I only felt… pleasantly numb, as though the twisting pain were seeping _out_ of me rather than inside. I wondered at the spell, thinking I sure needed to know it for future reference, but I said nothing at all. An intense silence fell as the Guardian woman stared fixedly at me from her shadowed face.

Then she smiled. It was the smile of a predator, one who has found a weakness in its prey. "You are nothing, witch." She removed her hood.

She was tall, blonde, ageless. Clear blue eyes gazed back at me with disdain out of a pure face. Power seeped out of her. People obeyed and respected her. Despite all that, I hated her on the spot.

"Mistress Aine?"

We both turned our heads toward the intruder–a young woman with long blonde locks just like Aine's. Her daughter?

"Yes," snapped Aine with obvious irritation.

The girl bent her head in deference. "He is ready, my lady." And she retreated without another word.

Facing the woman once more, I only had time to see her slow smile before I was suddenly in my bedroom at Number Eight, Belmore Avenue. There I remained stoic a long moment before cold dread finally took its place.


	9. No Matter Where

**Author's note**: Hello. Missed me? Sorry for that huge delay. Real life demands, you know... But the semester's over, with only one exam left in two weeks, so I'm relatively free to start finishing this mammoth. Originally, this chapter was going to be _much_ longer, but at nearly 7K words, I thought it was time to split ;) Enjoy!

(65K goal has been breached. 70K next? Probably.)

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHT: NO MATTER WHERE**

"No. No no no _no_ no!"

What kind of sick game were the Fates playing with me? Didn't they know it was Ron they had doomed when they'd sent me back? Didn't they know I couldn't do a damned thing for him from here even if I tried? Just the thought…

Cold sweat hit me. Bile lurched into the back of my throat. My vision became one tiny black hole. Breaths weren't better. Shakily I gained my feet, recognising the delayed symptoms for what they were and cursing them to hell and back. What good was I when I couldn't even do a single thing?

Toilet. Toilet, I needed the toilet.

How helpful. The clever woman vomits her brains out and sobs? Useless.

_You are nothing_.

She was too right.

#

Glimpses of brightness. Shocking disks of the coldest blue. Cold. So cold. No, hot. Then cold. Heart? Erratic and slow. Moisture gone pasty on skin. Eyes burning, like skin, but no tears. No tears. He saw happiness, far, far away, untouchable, blurry. Memories. He clung to them. Knew only the beautiful vision could keep him sane through – _Pain!_

Heard her voice, hers, the memory's. _Guardian angel_. The playful gratitude in depthless pools of brown. Heard his own reply. _I'm no angel_. But he wanted to be, only for her. Saw her sick, shaking in his arms. His fault. Dangerous –

More pain. Slashing, blood screaming, teeth clenching, aching. A cry, torn from the seat of his soul, smothered and never released. His body slumped in too-tight adamant restraints, stripped of all power but failing strength.

"Worthless. You are worthless without us, Honos." The Mistress flicked her fingers outward.

Slipped in and out of consciouness. Head fell forward. Saw his ugly nakedness. Couldn't feel a thing but heard it all as though from afar.

"Can the girl teach you your potential? Does she know _Honos_?"

She did. She didn't. She didn't care. He scared her, hurt her. She wanted him, just him. He would be the death of her. She of him? No!

No superfluous emotional attachments, he knew.

His potential… he had so much, he did not even understand himself. Could he risk Hermione's life anymore than he already had? In retrospect it hadn't seemed so dangerous to hide her under the Brotherhood's very own nose, but she'd been discovered and… where was she?

_Worthless without us_. Guardian be damned. He was helpless, his magic bound within him for the time being. Hoping to escape was futile. Wasn't it always?

"You are needed here, Honos. Your purpose is with us. You are nothing without us."

With every word a smooth caress, his body felt all the more scarred, criss-crossed, over and back, and knotted. When would it end?

_I know. I think you do, too_.

#

"I didn't want you hurt." Under his breath Harry added, "Still don't."

_Not again._ "Harry, I'm–"

"I know! You're a grown woman and you're damned good and I can't do a thing to stop you," he muttered.

"Spoken like a good man," Ginny couldn't help but quip. Harry's arms and legs closed around her thighs and neck as if to say _But there are other ways to stop you…_ Indeed, there wasn't much one could do in her position except to slowly work one's way out–speed didn't help an inch with grappling–but her body strongly pleaded tiredness and so she remained soft in his hold until he let go a fraction.

It was a wonderful hold until just before dawn.

#

"Harry? … Harry!"

God dammit. Darkness, Death Eaters, hexes and curses flying all over the place with Voldemort who knew where… and now Ginny. How could he hope to find her in this bloody clusterfuck of bodies and death looming over life and especially him? _No. Mind over body, Potter. Get your arse in gear._ Clusterfuck could translate to doom in one instant of inattention.

"Harr… no, you're–"

_Shut her out_. Right now he had unfinished hands-on business with a wandless Death Eater who gave no quarters. As well as Voldemort to look out for. Where was–

Ginny's hoarse scream rattled him to the bones. "Let me go!" _Block. Block. Block._ "You're cho…king me you… bastard."

Harry glanced down at the masked Death Eater under him. His sweaty palms made a squelching sound on the darkened skin of his victim as he released… Ginny.

No. She can't be–No. Ginny!

The wide eyes stared up at the brilliant canopy of stars even as he was rudely pulled back off her lifeless body and onto his back. He just didn't have any strength left in him to fight back. "Gin…"

She coughed without moving her lips and then spoke. The ragged word was spoken with Voldemort's whispery, deadly voice. "What?"

On impulse Harry reached for his wand, but found nothing but bedding. He blinked hard, and Gin's face suddenly loomed over him. Life in her. His jaw went slack for a long moment.

She smiled at him shakily, rubbing her red-ringed neck. "Welcome back, Mr Potter."

#

I'd cried as much as I could, emptied my body like it needed purification, and afterward lay loose-boned on my bed for the longest time, unable to sleep for fear of forgetting anything.

Idle bodies aren't necessarily idle minds. The effort is just not recognised because it's not physically seen. I may have looked dead and depleted to the world, but the truth was, I wasn't thinking black thoughts anymore. My brain needed food to nibble on, so I began thinking proactively about a safer subject. Yes, Mr Clarke was closely linked with Ron, but he was my job first and foremost. Tomorrow I'd go see him, I decided, and would see Auror Randall about the case or lack thereof. It just couldn't drag on anymore; either they had something or they didn't.

I wondered fleetingly whether the prophecy was safe with Buchanan, but sleep claimed me soon enough.

I slept in fits and starts. The mind is amazing, though. It rejects traumatic thoughts as easily as if one threw a blanket over it. That was how trauma victims dealt with their shock.

Thankfully, I wasn't bothered until dawn. Regretfully, I repeat: I slept in fits and starts.

#

"Welcome back, Mr Potter."

Harry gaped at her like a fish, blinking, before frantically searching through the space beside him. A huge breath left him, and then he pressed Ginny to his chest. His hands were frigid even through her shirt.

"Are you all right?" Ginny whispered against his neck, unsure what to do. It was obvious Harry had had a nightmare of sorts–she bore the marks quire visibly.

"'m fine," he croaked out, squeezing tight. "What about you?" He pushed her back and threw his hand to the bedside table, things clanking.

Glasses. Right. "Here," Ginny said, reaching over him and handing them to him. he put them on with difficulty, his hands shaking so badly it took three tries to find his nose. Taking pity on him, she started taking his hands when he was done, only to be pushed away roughly.

"Let me–"

The bed dipped as he left the bed, and then she was being pulled along behind him.

"What–Harry–let me–"

The tiny lights around her mirror blinded her momentarily as he turned them on, and then Harry's hands lingered featherlight on her neck where he'd choked her mere moments before.

"It'll fade away," she said.

"I did this." Harry's voice sounded dead.

She batted his hands away, planting a glare on him. Hadn't they been on this road before? _Oh no you don't, Harry James Potter_. "I'm sure there was a very good reason. Go on, tell me."

Harry flushed, starting to turn away until she kept him right where he was and pegged him with a hard look. He wouldn't be going anywhere. Slowly he faced her. "I dreamt of the Battle, except I… killed you." The last he'd murmured, barely loud enough for her to hear.

As he looked off, Ginny bit her lips. She knew more than most that guilt plagued Harry at all times. Forget the boy-to-man hero, Harry'd borne a world of responsibility on his shoulders and his sole wish had been to make the world a better place for all. Dreams have a way of telling its dreamer exactly what they want, whether they want it subliminally or not. Which made her job very difficult at the moment.

"Hey." Absently, Harry turned his stubbled cheek into her palm, then his eyes found hers. Such sorrow. The injustice of it all. Life supposedly made you tougher from its harsh mishaps, but the intelligent souls who'd thought the clever phrase had left out how marked you were on the other end. Even healed fractures leave bumps. The bon is stronger, but aches visit from time to time during humid weather.

"I'm right here, Harry," Ginny continued in his neck. Through her nightshirt she felt his hands warm on her and slowly she relaxed into him. "You didn't mean it. I know that."

"You don't understand," he countered, still in that scary dead voice. "I could have hurt you."

Ginny shook her head. "The best part is you didn't," she replied. Then, on impulse, she kissed him and pulled away with a little grin. "Thank you for that."

Just as she'd anticipated, a corner of his mouth lifted at her silliness though some of the gauntness didn't leave his features. Slowly he gathered her in to him for a proper kiss, breaking it only to burrow his nose in her hair. In a husky voice he murmured, "Thanks."

There. That was as much an acknowledgment of his out-of-control sense of nobility as anyone would get.

"Let's go back." And proof that he was back in total control of himself.

"Mmhm." As if to underline what ungodly time it was, Ginny yawned hugely as Harry turned the light of her bathroom mirror off and led her back to bed.

She let him tuck her in and gather her into the now-warm cocoon of his body. She let him protect her once more.

#

Ron drifted in and out of consciousness, aware on some level of his state. His body ran cold, a combined result of a chilly draft that seeped steadily into the room and of his own physical state: his wounds wouldn't heal. Later, he'd have to deal with that… later…

He came to again, shivering in great trembling breaths. He remembered his nakedness and tried to curl in on himself. His wrists sang and he gasped, lost again.

The next time he felt something brush closeby. His eyes opened, but all he saw was a blob of yellow and a large black one on top nearby. Someone. Short. _Robin_, he thought, knowing Aine was taller.

The two blobs approached until he blinked, unseeing. "You could have avoided this, you know."

Ron couldn't reply. His throat was parched, his tongue swollen and raw.

"She only wants the best for us."

His head split open with a nascent headache, promising to carry on idefinitely should he stay hanging thus from his magical bonds. He decided to close his eyes on his own, and suddenly his body took over. Oblivion came.

The last time he emerged, he was alone. The room sounded hollow. Chin resting on his chest, Ron saw red. Blood. His own.

_He is ready_.

He was.

His power hadn't been a willful choice–he'd gained it through honourable courage of heart. Had he lost that quality afterward? Had something changed in him? He hoped not, else he'd die a truly honourable death battling against everything that stood between him and deliverance: adamant bonds, wards, wounds.

Steeling his precious few reserves of strength for one final pulsion, Ron cried out as his molecules exploded.

#

Ginny slowly came awake, stretching back luxuriously into another warm body. A moment, and then she smiled privately into the covers bunched at her chin.

"You awake?" Harry's voice came from her shoulder.

"Mmno…" Staying burrowed into her covers with Harry cloaking her, she thought, _I could get used to this_. Unfortunately, real life had a nasty habit of getting in the way of things, though it didn't need to know that right that moment. How about allowing her just a few more peaceful minutes?

There had been no other hitches during the night after Harry's nightmare, only a deep-seated quiet that had bled out of her every pore. She'd been dead to the world, hadn't dreamt much, but her body had known Harry had been there with her somehow.

"You _are_ awake." There was a grin in his voice as he plucked a hunk of hair off her face.

"I'm in that state between conscious and subconscious," Ginny grunted into her pillow. "Ask me anything and I can't be held accountable for what I say or do."

A dubious snort. "I'd love to be so talkative in my sleep."

"Half sleep," Ginny corrected groggily. "And it's a talent."

"Even so…" He paused, for effect she thought. It was a struggle to keep her eyes closed and not give in to the temptation of twisting around and seeing his expression. "What do you think of me?"

Ginny didn't hesitate. "You're the worst sort of asshole I've ever had the displeasure to meet," she declared with gusto.

"Mm, I was afraid of that, but you did sleep with the asshole in question last night even after he choked you half to death."

There was a thankful note in how he said it, and Ginny, despite promising a bit longer of a snooze, turned her head to meet his grateful eyes. "Maybe because the girl who did that is a bitch herself."

"No way," was Harry's vehement reply.

Ginny cocked a brow but didn't argue further. Hey, she'd take compliments when they came.

An intense silence followed where Harry didn't just look at her, but _touched_ her without even moving a single muscle. "I owe you something, Gin hon," he said at length.

Her nickname was back and, for some reason, it didn't incense her anymore. "What?" she breathed.

Harry's eyes twinkled. It had been a while since she'd seen him so relaxed. Usually work dominated his thoughts and actions. At the moment he… lived for the moment. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him so carefree with her own two eyes. for a moment she was almost jealous of Hermione. Maybe _she'd_ seen Harry carefree in the last seven or so years?

"I dunno. I was hoping you could tell me."

And there it was. A request for her to choose. "What do _you_ want, Harry?"

His eyes darkened as they latched onto her lips, and yet… "I want to find Hermione so bad."

Which shouldn't have made sense. She should have been furious that he'd been thinking of another woman while he was with her, but it just proved one thing: he did want her. Badly. But he wouldn't take what she offered. Yet. Which made the anticipation that much more mind-heart-pounding for both of them.

"Way to sweet-talk a woman, Harry," she teased lightly, stretching like a cat as Harry's eyes raked her exposed skin.

No, they smoldered. "You know what I mean."

Ginny nodded, grinning. "Yeah, I do." With that out of the way, she peeled the covers off her, elbowed Harry aside, and walk-shimmied her way to the bathroom. There was something to say of a woman's wiles. Victory may come later, but the game was all about scoring goals before the snitch was caught… and maybe cheating without the referee calling foul mid-play.

Oh, what a subtle game…

Ginny stepped under the warm spray of the shower, letting it energise her.

#

"Wake up."

My eyes stang as I opened them to behold my intruder. Then I jerked completely awake.

He fell upon me.

#

Twisting my palms over and again, I stared until it seemed I'd imprinted the sight forever in my brain. An echo would always remain.

There was blood on my hands.

That I had no reaction wasn't the problem. I had seen blood in all tableaux before. Pints, stains, cuts, extracted teeth, gushing veins, gurgling throats… I'd seen rivers of the stuff, from brilliant red to dark burgundy, nearly black. I'd helped heal people back to relative health, only to have them return hours later in worse conditions­–in the end, it all falls back to the wounded and whether they'll fight death itself alone.

I'd killed, too, but then those had been bloodless deaths. It seemed strange that shock would grip me now, after all that.

"Thanks," Ron's rasp jarred me as he touched my knee with shaking fingers.

I lowered my hands, wiping them on my trousers, and checked the soaked bandage on his chest wordlessly. My brain had shut down and currently worked on autopilot. There was no way I could let myself think beyond these two facts: Ron was alive, and his strength was completely shot from his multi-Apparating from ward to ward and from his loss of blood. There was only one way to forget this entire episode, and it was to do everything I could possibly do to care for Ron.

Except I just kept seeing that woman and wondering what had become of her.

"Aine…" I began tentatively, slowly towelling away a crust of blood from his brow.

Ron shook his head wordlessly. A long silence ensued where things were left to my imagination, which I didn't dare touch.

After a while, though, I had to ask. It was torture not to know. I whispered close to his ear, " Are we safe here?"

A surprisingly steady hand grabbed mine. "Never, but I'm here, 'Mione."

The truth was no cake, but it did ease me. Funny thing is, although I knew the exact extent of his current physical limitations, I didn't doubt him for a second. A leader, Ron was always a leader.

And I'd be damned if I wasn't his second-in-command.

#

Ginny would have shut the shower tap when a hand joined hers on the knob. A male hand, bigger, more powerful. She backed away instinctively against the cool wall, more speechless than shocked, as Harry stepped in. He didn't even once look at her.

"Just so we get out of here quicker. There's a lot of work to do," he said quietly, his words reverberating against the tile.

"Really," Ginny murmured skeptically, unmoving. If Harry in boxers and a tee-shirt riding up his torso bothered her, now… his bare cheeks truly did.

"Yeah." He threw a glance her way, then promptly went back to doing his thing.

"I was… I was done," Ginny said lamely after a few seconds of vainly trying to slow her speeding heart. The whole situation made her want to flail around stupidly. What was Harry up to? Hadn't they just agreed that they'd wait for things to progress in any direction? And what could she do without… cheating?

Because she'd honour his damn honour, dammit.

Harry faced her, letting the water sluice through his midnight hair. Ginny told herself she'd lock her eyes on that sight and throw away the key if she didn't want to look south and… oh, there you go. Snapping her eyes back to his face, she knew hers was on fire and immediately glanced away, feeling like the biggest lecher in the world. And for some reason, all her thought processes packed up their bags.

Heck, they'd experimented before. No big deal, right? Except it was. Harry was… well, he was different. There was no reason to play favourites, but she definitely liked her men built like he was now.

"Why so quiet?" Harry called, washing his armpits.

_You_, she thought as she watched his back arch sensuously, the muscles moving under his glistening skin. Then shook her head, trying to clear it.

Ginny, who prided herself on her smart mouth, couldn't think up a single remark to cover her unusual behaviour. _Hi, you have a very nice arse, but an even greater front. Lecher, you say? Yes, I believe I am, thank you for noticing._

"Gin? Hon?" He glanced over his shoulder, caught her red-faced, and opened his mouth to speak.

"What the hell are you trying to do?" Ginny blurted out angrily before he could place a word in. Then she pushed away from the wall, meaning to get out of the condensation because dammit, she was losing her head and things were getting too damn hot.

Except two wet somethings grabbed her waist from behind and turned her back around forcefully. Hands. Harry's lips planted onto hers, and the fog intensified in her head even as it swirled around them and the spray hit their bodies full on. In some dim part of her mind, Ginny was aware of Harry maneuvering her around against the wall again. There she broke away, hissing at the cold contact. Eyes unfocused, Harry wrapped his arms around her to replace the cold.

Which pushed his erection into her stomach.

"Oh!" Harry almost pulled away but Ginny, emboldened, snatched him right back into a kiss while her other hand met hot skin. Harry's sharp growl into her mouth as she gripped him sent her heart into a deep boil. He unlatched from her lips, pumping slowly into her fist. His hot breath tickled her face with each pant.

"Oh God, Gin, yes…" Reaching between them, he first ghosted over her arm as though testing the velvet of her skin, then transferred it lower to cup her. Idly, _tortuously_, he began rubbing a finger against her slit.

Ginny moaned. Dimly she felt her leg being lifted, baring all of herself to him. Their lips met in messy openmouthed kisses, hot breaths and moans mingling as they touched each other intimately.

"Why?" Ginny panted into his mouth a moment later, licking his full bottom lip.

Harry was silent as, brows furrowed, face flushed and mouth slightly parted, he rode the last–

Ginny pulled her hand off him.

Gaze snapping to hers, Harry's eyes widened in alarm. "You…"

"Why?" Ginny demanded again, half insane with need even as she _needed_ to know.

He tried to nuzzle her, unsuccessfully. "Guess," he rasped.

"What about… her?" Would he… Could she…?

"She's not who I want, Gin hon." He stared at her a moment, reading the question in her eyes as though it were crystal clear. "I… can't, but let me…" His finger slipped between her moist folds, swirling, swirling… Ginny whimpered, gripping his chest to steady herself lest she falter. She would, she knew it. She was that close, and could just imagine Harry's own desperation as he waited for her. "I want _you_. Please. I'm close, Gin."

So was she, and she needed release like she needed air to breathe. So she wrapped her hand around him again, feeling every inch of power that came from controlling his pleasure. As she went slow, Harry followed her rhythm and thrust deep and long. Soon she had him back where he'd been moments before. She felt it in the tension of his bunched shoulders as he bowed his head into her neck.

Abruptly he barked her name as he came, arching and pistoning. Ginny drank in every sound, reveling in his invasion of her private space. Finally he slid to his knees, spent…

_Oh!_

"Do that again," Ginny demanded in a breath.

Harry wasn't done taking his pleasure, only this time he'd turned the tables on her and she threatened to falter for real. Every nerve ending in her was alive, but her clit… it was a maelstrom of pleasepleaseplease and ohyeahrightthere's, an eager slave to its master.

"Just… just…" She gasped as two fingers entered her deeply even as he suckled. Her breath left her on a whoosh – "_there!_" – and she couldn't stand anymore, just crumpled to the floor and convulsed and whimpered until she was nothing more than liquefied bones and flesh.

Only then did he lift his head, eyes bright. "You okay?"

"Dead for a bit," Ginny whispered, out of muscles to talk.

A satisfied smile tugged at his lips. "Why don't we get out?"

Ginny groaned at the idea of moving so soon. "I was considering becoming a shower mat." Despite her sluggishness, however, she complied and let him wrap her up in a terrycloth towel.

When Harry had secured another one at his hips, he looked up and smiled a boyish one. _Merlin_, Ginny thought helplessly. _I have fallen… hard_.

#

While Ginny had been brushing and drying her tangled hair, Harry had headed off to her kitchen and apparently busied himself with breakfast. Walking in, she inhaled deep. _Ooh, sugar_… He'd made French toast with a smidgen of sweet maple syrup.

"Can I keep you?" she teased as she glanced over his shoulder.

"Ah, but then that's slavery, m'dear." He patted her arms looped loosely around his middle and accepted her embrace. "You're a great cook yourself anyway."

Ginny made a moue. "Like I said the other day, my cakes are always on the dry side," she admitted in mock horror. "Imagine that."

Harry shrugged goodnaturedly, flipping the toasts in the pan. "Hey, you cook meals, I take over for dessert. How's that arrangement?" he shot back lightly.

Smiling, Ginny decided she loved the silly moments with Harry. They were a bright spot in an often dreary day. Dramatically, she swooned back into her chair. "Harry," she gushed, "we were made for each other!"

Turning with spatula in hand, Harry cocked his eyebrow at her, chuckling merrily. "If you say so," he whispered before tapping her nose with the sticky utensil.

Predictably, Ginny screeched bloody murder as Harry grinned from ear to ear.

"Oops!" He ducked back to the stove, checking the bread as if nothing had happened.

"Harry James Potter," Ginny exploded, dissolving into laughter, "you will so get it." With that, she walked over, smacking a loud one – and her nose – on his cheek, effectively spreading the thick syrup.

Harry yelped, weapon poised for combat even though he also shook with laughter.

Ginny cocked a brow, daring him silently. "Actually," she mused aloud, inching closer, "you need one on your _other_ cheek so it doesn't get jealous."

A ring went off, effectively freezing them both in their tracks.

"Saved by the bell," Ginny whispered, backing off as Harry fished in his trouser pocket for his mobile. He lodged it in the crook of his neck as he busied his spatula in the pan.

Ginny rummaged in her fridge for the syrup. He'd left it exactly where she usually kept it. _He's a keeper, that one_, she thought with a covert glance his way. Still he talked, presumably by the way Harry had to keep reminding him that Miranda was after all his charge and no, there was no way he'd swap. She took the full plate from him without a word.

Harry snorted into the phone at something Hopkins said. "Maybe _you_ ought to feel a bit more jealous of Miranda, how about that." He covered the mouthpiece with his hand when he saw Ginny. "Thanks, Gin hon."

Was Ginny beginning to feel like a little lovesick fool? Yes, she was. It might be foolish and completely inappropriate in their line of work, but she did feel like the human embodiment of featherlight. "No problem," she murmured back as he set back to work filling his plate after hers. Even when he sat across from her, she tuned out his conversation.

Although she should have been thinking about work and the next rational step in their investigation… she just couldn't place a logical thought in. She'd had… a form of sex in her shower, mind-blowing, extra-super-fantastic and all, with Harry Potter… only the man she'd been trying to convince herself she _didn't_ want for the longest time.

"No, actually," Harry cut into her thoughts, eyeing her distractedly, "we have to go up north today. Mallaig. Scotland, yeah. I figure we can make it back before my watch tonight. Oh really…" He rolled his eyes amiably. "You're a big boy, mate." He listened a moment, then sighed. "Let me ask her." Covering the mouthpiece, he leaned toward Ginny. "D'you mind if Hopkins and Miranda tag along today? He says he's 'tried everything but she just won't learn.'"

Tom made it so easy to hate him. "Chauvinistic dog," Ginny muttered under her breath. Harry shrugged, displacing himself from any blame. "Oh, why the hell not. I'll give her a break from the arseheaded ponce."

With a chuckle and a headshake, Harry confirmed to said ponce, clicked off, and shook his head again at her. "He's not that–"

"Don't defend him, Harry," Ginny replied amiably enough, licking syrup off her lips.

Harry knew not to push his luck. "Okay, okay," he relented. "But he's a great friend."

She smiled crookedly. "Don't you just love that your friend uses you to get rid of his charge?"

They finished eating in silence.

#

When Ron woke next, the whole bed shook. Instantly I was taken back to the first night he'd taken me to the Coven, after his battle with Buchanan. Ron's teeth clacked together as he rolled into a fœtal position. Shivers racked his body in great waves, sweat rolling down his temples.

Last time I'd been there to hold him through it. This time he refused to let me touch him. "No, stay away," he pleaded with brilliant fever-filled eyes. "I mean it."

And I could feel why he pushed me away. Flattening myself against the farthest wall, I tried to ignore the roiling in my head and gut as energy blurred him out in front of my very eyes. "Are you okay?" The question was vaguely ironic, considering that Ron was going through something I couldn't even begin to understand. But I knew it was bad. Really bad.

Silence – if you could call the deafening buzz of energy silence – and then Ron's gritted rasp. "Yeah."

It was a start. "How are you…" I swallowed hard, sliding down the wall. Good thing was, I was holding most of the bile down. My reactions were improving. "How are you doing?"

"I'm so sorry, 'Mione. Wish I could…" Gasp and grunt.

Now I felt the sweats hitting me. "Don't give up, Ronnie. You're stronger, you can do it."

I heard his frantic pants, felt his rank panic in droves. Dear Circe, it was overtaking him. helplessness just drove me mental.

"Listen to me, you fool!" I cried, standing suddenly and wobbling like a drunken dolt. "I love you and don't you dare do this to me." As I fell onto him and touched his skin, it was like being coursed with electricity so potent it hit me hard, a sock filled with a brick that was being swung repeatedly at me.

This was nothing like the last time. It was attacking _him_. His own magical makeup was destroying him in order to reconcile with the fact that he'd been tortured nearly to death and not been able to do a single thing about it. What was there to do except to pray that someone up there would get a plan rolling?

"Stay with me," I choked out. Dimly I felt my heart pounding its way out of my chest, my hands gone cold as I touched Ron's boiling skin under the haze of fierce magic. The tip of my hand poked into my backside, but I didn't–

Wait. _Wand_. That last registered. Professor Flitwick's lecture in First Year came back to me clear as day, making my heard pump for a whole other reason than abject fear. _Wands are the vessel from which the sparse magical energy is concentrated and then funneled outward_. Ron's energy wasn't sparse, it was hyper-concentrated, and at the moment it was looking for a bigger vessel to even itself out.

Wasting no time, I molded myself to Ron's body, hoping against all hope that I was doing the right thing because my brain certainly didn't like the contact.

"'Mione," he gasped, attempting to scramble away, "what are you – oh _Merlin_…"

"Take my hand," I whimpered through the pounding and the swirling. "Take my hand, Ronnie, please."

He took it and it all went away.

#

"Hey sugar."

Ginny sent Harry a covert glare over her scrumptuously syrup-laden French toast as Tom Hopkins sat next to her. She ignored him categorically.

"Awh, what's with her? Did you rub her the wrong way?" he queried Harry when he reappeared in the kitchen, Miranda at his heel.

Harry shrugged, crossing his arms.

"So how's your hands-on research going since the last time? You have a lead on your friend?" All traces of the jerkitude were replaced with what Ginny guessed was his regular on-the-job approach. Laugh lines were gone, and so was the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. He looked to Harry with serious purpose. So that was why Harry stuck to the bastard's friendship…

"We've got a lead in Scotland. Little town of Mallaig near the Hebrides. We were thinking about going today."

Tom slapped Harry's back, a half-serious grin in place. "Well what are we waiting for?"

Ginny finished her glass of orange juice and looked over at the other woman to assess her disposition to the idea. "You mind?"

Caught in surprise, Miranda glanced covertly at Hopkins. "No, 'course not," she stuttered.

The bastard rolled his eyes. "See? Let's go."

Indeed, after a few cleaning spells, they were ready to head out. As the men pored over maps to triangulate their Apparition trail, Ginny pulled Miranda apart. "You sure?"

The other woman nodded, a tremulous smile stretching her lips for an instant. "Yeah. He's quite a handful, isn't he?"

"He doesn't…" Ginny trailed off meaningfully. "Does he?"

Miranda's eyes went wide as saucers as she caught the meaning. "What? No! He's all bark and no bite. Really."

Still, Ginny's bullshit metre buzzed. She narrowed her eyes, studying her friend intently. "Absolutely sure?"

The other woman's eyes trailed slowly back to the men. "Yeah. It's fine."

As Ginny watched Miranda's eyes drop sadly to the ground, she suddenly understood. "Oh… no… Honey, you–"

"It's fine," she repeated with harsh finality, eyes gone hard.

Except it wasn't. Ginny knew firsthand how it felt to be rejected, could only sympathise with her friend over what seemed impossible to mend. _You and Harry did finally somewhat fix what went wrong years ago._ She eyed Tom sadly, thinking that if he was any other man… But he wasn't and likely wouldn't change anytime soon. Nor open his eyes.

Harry snapped her back to reality as he called her over to go over the details.

#

"Is it over?" I asked breathlessly after a moment.

Ron took a deep, cautious breath, lifting with him as his chest expanded to take his first full breath. "Looks like it," he replied cautiously, just as surprised.

"Wow."

"Yeah. Wow. How did you know?"

I shrugged lazily. "Science. When energy is excited, it fights for a way out until either the container explodes or you find a way to siphon whatever's in out. In this case, you were the container. I siphoned."

We both turned our heads as one toward the wall, examining the… results of my decision.

"Never thought I'd be able to do that spell without a wand," I mused aloud, remembering the power slamming through me as though it were happening all over again. "It's quite a rush, don't you think? Is it always like that?"

He made a sound of assent, tearing his eyes away from the Triquetra symbol temporarily burned into the wall. From experience we knew it would disappear within the next few hours, but it was still an odd sight in my bedroom. "Well, now we know we were here," he commented drily before struggling to sit up. I obliged by sitting back on his legs.

"How'd you feel?" I asked, quickly inspecting his body for possible further injury.

"Like something plowed through me twice over. Which it did." He grimaced as he tried to get into a comfortable position.

His reaction reminded me of the bandage. I'd quickly rolled gauze around his torso, the worst area from the Elder's torture. "Let me check your wounds," I offered, rolling off him with purpose.

At first Ron batted my hands away, grumbling like a recalcitrant child. "That's not necessary," he groaned.

"Be reasonable," I sighed in frustration. "If these get infected you'll be doing much worse that you're doing now. Don't you remember?"

My visual reminder of the war did its job. Ron had always been hardheaded, but I don't think he'll ever want a repeat of the months of pain, medication, healing and fevers while battling Death Eaters just to serve his ever-elevated male pride.

He helped me peel the wrappings off his chest. When we got to the flesh beneath, I touched and prodded, measuring his deliberately detached expression for signs of pain. Whereas the wounds had properly closed after I'd disinfected them, the skin was still an angry Jackson Pollock of colours, although Ron gave no feedback at all as I healed bruises. My skill wasn't in Healing, though, but we hadn't the time to pop into St. Mungo's.

"I need to wrap you up again," I announced in the silence after my brisk examination, fetching the roll of gauze in the bathroom.

Although he pursed his lips, no doubt wanting to refuse altogether, Ron said nothing more than, "Make it thin."

I set to work, fingers light and quick over Ron's warm skin as though they'd been specially calibrated for this particular job. The truth was, they'd done this job nightly for months; it was just like taking up biking after years off the wheels. The real shocker was, however, that I'd never been able to learn proper Healing even after all that time. Guess there was something even brainy know-it-alls couldn't get.

"Planning to get vertical, Ron?" I asked to fill the silence as I finished rolling the clean fabric.

His chest expanded, testing the tightness of his wrappings, then he looked up. "We have to meet with Buchanan. Today."

"Do we have to?" I asked hopefully. Nothing wrong with wishing Ron wouldn't put himself in harm's way again so soon. But then this was a man we were talking about. A hardheaded specimen, even.

Ron snorted darkly, all male agression and revenge. "Oh yeah." Lifting a hand, he tugged my head down until my lips were mere inches from his. "You were right. It's wrong, Hermione. It's all wrong. Now I know it."

A sigh rolled through my body. This wasn't happiness, this was the purest form of it. "I'm glad you finally see it my way," I murmured through a tremulous smile.

His eyes glowed as he murmured back teasingly, "You're always right, didn't you know?" before pressing his lips to mine.

To which I chuckled and poked him lightly even as I tugged him closer.

A moment later Ron struggled to his feet by himself. I didn't dare help, wanting him to get a feel for how ready he was to get back on track. His feet planted, his arms bulged with effort, he gritted his teeth, and finally he was standing stiffly without wobbling the slightest. A triumphant smile split his lips. _See?_ it seemed to communicate. _I can do it._

Rolling my eyes playfully, I grabbed one of Harry's shirts and began dressing Ron. There would be no Guardian robe this time – it was beyond mending anyway. When I was done, I stepped back to admire Ron 2.0 in everyday garb. "Well now, seems we're ready. How will he know to come?"

"Homing Charm. Just like I did to keep tabs on you. He'll feel us moving if he's paying attention. Come on." He offered me his hand.

I ignored it, going instead to stroke his shoulder in soothing circles. "We could always–" I started offering, thinking of the car Harry and I seldom, if ever, used.

"I'm fine," he sighed-grated. "Now will you–"

"You don't always have to be the hero, you know."

"And I'm not breakable," he countered hotly.

I shut up tight, took his hand, and we Disapparated out of my house that Saturday morning without another word from each other.

He was wrong, though. He'd almost proven he was breakable that morning. Everyone is.

* * *

**Author's note**: I've created a forum where you can come forward and ask your questions. Check my profile for the link. Don't be shy, I don't bite ;)

Of course, I always appreciate reviews, whether good or bad. I absolutely love speculations, too.


	10. I Will Find You

**Author's note**: Why hello. It's been almost exactly a month and I've had this ready chapter for about half that time. The reason? During that second half I started chapter 10 and had to make small edits for continuity and clarity's sakes. So, really, it needed to be done and I'm not sorry because you get quality over expediency ;)

I'm almost done with chapter 10, I think, but don't hold me to that. There's school to take into account and, considering I'm a slow poke under any normal circumstances, I really don't know when I'll have it ready.

Random pimp: The titles for this chapter and the last (No Matter Where) are from Clannad's "I Will Find You", which can be found on the soundtrack to _Last of the Mohicans_. It's absolutely gorgeous and perfect writing music.

* * *

**CHAPTER NINE : I WILL FIND YOU**

"Quaint," Ginny commented as they hiked in view of the tiny village of Mallaig. Beyond the hills they'd just traversed, lush thistle bushes, more verdant hills and the wide, open sea. Small cottage houses kept each other pleasantly distant company, and the saline air made Ginny wish swimming wasn't such a bad idea in Scotland's waters. She tugged her thin cardigan closed over her breasts as a breeze from the Hebrides rolled by.

"Bit like Hogsmeade," Miranda commented of the picturesque village with a smile as the men topped the hill to join them. "So this is the Mallaig we've been looking for?"

"Yep," Harry announced, closing the map with some finality and breathing in a lungful. His gaze darted to Ginny, colliding with hers. He looked away first. "So, Ginny, what are we looking for here?"

Those green eyes were on her again, assessing. He was assuming the role of teacher, but an extra layer, the one that remembered exactly what she tasted like and how she whimpered and begged as she came apart, remained in his body language and how he looked at her like… like a Cheshire cat with a distilled knowing smile.

_Look professional, Weasley_, she had to remind herself as she tored her gaze away from his keen stare to squint purposefully at the open field before them and the little brick houses beyond. _I need binoculars_, she thought again with dismay.

"We're looking for the last place Buchanan was seen," she said, reining her thoughts in and locking them away. "We'll have to ask local magical folk and, if there aren't any, the non-magical ones." She paused, frowning. "Though it would help if we had a photograph. Were there–"

"I didn't see one." Harry's voice took on a thoughtful tone. "Must have been in some really undercover missions. I'll bet the Minister keeps all the top secret files in more detailed folders somewhere. The one I saw was slim. You'd have thought he pushed paper around while he was working with them."

Tom sniffed. "Yeah, right. Do we have a working description, then?"

Ginny blinked up at Harry, who blinked back. They'd never asked. All they knew was that he wore a black robe, nothing more.

"Well, maybe he wore Auror robes when he–" Ginny began tentatively.

"No," Harry replied, shaking his head. "The guy was deep undercover – he wouldn't wear such recogniseable robes on missions."

"So you've got nothing?" Tom asked incredulously, his disappointment and disapproval obvious in his tone.

Harry's lips twisted in a self-deprecating grimace. "I didn't say anything about the Sherman case, Hopkins," he shot back at his friend in warning.

"Oi!" Tom cried mournfully. "You had to bring that back? I was young and a bit inexperimented."

At that, unable to help herself, Ginny coughed pointedly. "Not to mention probably already an arse."

"Actually," Tom countered jovially enough, grinning from ear to ear, "I was only just beginning. Some people just bring the best out of me."

Ginny rolled her eyes, catching Miranda's eye and feeling a world of sadness for her. "You're pitiful, Hopkins. I hope you know that."

"Who? Me?" He snorted good-naturedly, throwing an arm over Harry's shoulder. "Nah," he shot back before they turned to walk down the hill toward the village.

She _had_ caught his tight-lipped smile as he turned, though, and it gave her pause for only a moment before Miranda urged her after them.

#

I was becoming good at the nausea-diminishing thing. Or maybe my body was slowly getting used to it. One thing was certain, though: my experience of feeling the full force of Ron's magical onslaught had been so mind-numbing that I just hadn't felt a thing. Falling asleep in his arms afterward had perhaps helped, too. Either way, I didn't feel so miserable after we landed in downtown London near the Ministry offices.

As a measure of safety, Ron had dropped us a block away from the meeting place. I found that a bit risky but kept that detail to myself. Surely there was a reason we were coming back to the same spot, although for the life of me I couldn't help but feel like a waiting duck.

And what if this was all a trap? Considering the fact that Buchanan was a Mage, this was more than just a passing possibility and perhaps were just walking into it like two docile Pygmy Puffs who simply waited for cuddles out of life.

_Oh, the negativity_, I thought to myself. It wasn't getting me anywhere.

Ron believed in Buchanan's allegiance. Buchanan knew firsthand the kind of life that Ron was subjected to as a Guardian. I wondered whether he also sported scars. Torture punishments. Dehumanisation processes. A stone-cold sense of being a tool that choked the identity out of him.

As we walked, I slipped my hand into Ron's and felt the tension melt out of his body as quickly as if I'd shot codeine into his system. He glanced over, the lines around his eyes softening, then absently stroked the back of my palm with his thumb. The rhythmic caress soothed my flayed nerves, too, and I smiled a little at him before he resumed his careful visual surveillance of every nook, cranny and Dumpster in the back street.

"We stop here," he said at length and pulled me close, behind a Dumpster overflowing with rotten remains. The vantage was ours. If Buchanan pulled a trap from under us, at least we'd have a measure of control.

The morning hummed with the sounds of traffic around us. Ron tracked the emptiness, always alert.

"You have to understand," he whispered starkly, his eyes locking onto me for a fraction of a second. "Even now other Guardians might be after me."

"No one has ever quit?" I asked, though a niggling told me I already knew the answer.

He shook his head. Just what would they do to someone who had run away from their duties? Or simply from them?

"Is there a Trace on you?" I asked haltingly.

Ron did a lot of glaring in the direction where Buchanan should appear before he answered. "Not exactly. No one's put a Homing spell on me as far as I know, but a few of us comb London and its environs so a Guardian might stumble on us while doing rounds."

I leaned back against the brick wall, studying his lean profile. I was still a long way from feeling completely at ease around Ron 2.0, who was so much more intense than the original Ron, but each hour I grew more and more comfortable around him. He was just as blunt, just as loyal to his beliefs. "Is that how you keep track of your charges?" Right at its trail another thought popped in. "And who will inherit them now that you're…" I trailed off meaningfully.

Ron shrugged. "I suppose Robin will have to step up soon." The prospect bothered him. He shook himself quickly. "But yeah, we put a Homing spell on our charges, just like I did with you, so we can be at the right place at the right time."

I stayed silent a moment, waiting for him to elaborate. "How? Meditation?"

Ron glanced over, knowing exactly where I was headed with my half-mischievous grin. He nodded wryly.

"Wow." I snickered. "My very own Divination skeptic gets a taste of his own medicine. How ironic," I chortled. Nevermind the fact that I'd been an even greater skeptic before him.

"Fine," Ron grunted. "Make fun of me, why don't you. Just know that I saved your bum from Buchanan that way. Be grateful."

Like that, my smile faded. "Of that I am, Ron, of that I am. Or was. I don't know black from white anymore when it comes to him. What if he's just–"

A shadow suddenly rounded the Dumpster. The words died in my throat as I saw what – who – it was.

"Talking about me, I see," Buchanan mused aloud, a tight smirk frozen on his lips as he leaned against the huge container a few paces away. "Can't say as I blame you, though."

He sobered, turning to Ron and studying him closely. Warily, Ron drew himself to his full height, judiciously hiding a wince of pain. Buchanan's nostrils flared as he took it in, missing nothing. "What happened to you?"

Silence. Something seemed to pass between the men.

Buchanan's jaw locked tighter. "Nevermind. What's your plan?"

"They might try to snatch me again, so we have to act fast," Ron replied, sliding a little against the Dumpster.

"An attack?" Buchanan stroked his unshaven cheek as a sliver of light fell over him. That surprised me. When he was still posing as an Auror, he'd been just as rough around the edges in the way of manner, but he'd also appeared clean, shaven and well-dressed. The change was striking. For the first time I really studied him. His face appeared sallow even in the dim light. His hair and clothes were unkempt, as though he'd either slept in them or not slept at all. Actually, his eyes confirmed the latter. He looked at us through half-mast eyes, shadows playing under them. "That might be difficult to attempt," he ventured carefully. "But not impossible."

"Just the two of you against them all?" I asked, baffled. That sounded an awful lot like a kamikaze operation.

"See anyone else eager to join his little rebellion?" Buchanan snarled in my face.

"Tell me something. Why are _you_?" I challenged back. It served two functions. One, it pricked the prick. Two, it was actually something I'd been wondering for a time.

Buchanan stared at me a long time, seemingly torn between amazement that I'd actually dared to ask and irritation at the fact that the little lawyer would not relent. I steeled myself for more of his snappish non-answers. Finally, though, he took a deep breath. His features visibly relaxed. "We'd better take this somewhere else." He offered us his hands, palms up.

"Where?" Ron demanded, ever vigilant.

Buchanan's mouth quirked. "Somewhere they wouldn't dream to look for you – or me, for that matter. It's quite safe," he added as an afterthought, looking expectant.

He took us to a barren shack deep in the woods.

#

"I lived here, as a matter of fact," Buchanan explained with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Since I turned I haven't had much time to pop in, but I like to take a breather once in a while."

I dragged my index finger over a countertop, fascinated at the fact that he was willing to crack a little of his cold façade to let us in, and grimly noted an inch or so of dust came away with my finger. "It's been _a while_, I'll say."

A black sneer was thrown my way. "Anyway," he started, pushing away from the kitchen table he'd leant on. "You wanted to know… The Mage Society, it's not like it used to be. It used to follow a noble mission–"

"To exterminate Muggles, Muggleborns and halfbloods just like Voldemort? I fail to see where their mission was noble." Perhaps more heat came out of my voice than I'd expected, but I didn't care. For a Muggleborn like me, this debate _mattered_, even years after the Final Battle we won on a bold strike of luck and cunning. People still whispered. I suspected the strong opinions would never die out.

"No, nothing like that," Buchanan responded with a small frown, as vulnerable as I'd ever seen him. "I'm a halfblood, for Christ's sake. I never thought that."

Ron cut in obligingly. "The Brotherhood was too idealistic for some of them, who wanted a bit of leeway to pursue their own interests." He shrugged. "Of course, we all know where that led. They betrayed their own, thus starting an endless clash between the two factions."

I arched an inquiring brow at Buchanan. "What's your interest in this?"

He wasted no time answering. "It's gone too far," he said fiercely, standing up to pace.

He wearied of battle, I realised, and suddenly felt a tug of sympathy for him. Knowing so little about his history, I could nevertheless appreciate the sacrifices he'd made for other people all his life. I didn't know where he'd been during the War against Voldemort or even if he'd fought in it, but not long after those trying years he'd evidently joined the magical force of Aurors to work undercover, which couldn't have been a picnic, had nearly died on a battleground with his team, and had then immediately turnedinto a Mage to once more fight a war that wasn't his own, against the Guardian Brotherhood this time.

His eyes narrowed at something or other outside while I mulled. As he did, everything vile I'd ever thought of him realigned itself.

The past explains who we are today. Buchanan hadn't known much beyond others' fights in all his life. At that moment I admired his rough exterior: it was protection against close human contact. After all, he'd watched his own men, men he'd likely come to call friends in time, die on a field in Mallaig.

He obviously had cared for his comrades. Why then had he become a Mage instead of a Guardian like Ron?

"Anyway," Buchanan coughed, turning back to us and effectively wiping all traces of emotion from his eyes. "I'm not like that. This secret war is utterly pointless and I don't care to 'be the best'. We're all shackled in this without consent and–" He interrupted himself, frowning at a small writing desk in the corner.

"What?" Ron asked, wary.

Buchanan single-mindedly marched over to the cylinder writing desk. It had been left open, recently by the lack of dust on the sliding top. He dug through the compartments, verifying myriad maps that had been stashed pell-mell into it while muttering to himself. Ron and I eased closer, peering over his shoulder.

Finally, Buchanan straightened. "No one's been here for years," he stated roughly. "As far as anyone and the Ministry know, I'm dead and this house is abandoned. It's in the middle of nowhere in Scotland, besides. _No one_ comes here. Who do you think would?"

I blinked. "_What_ are you talking about?"

"No, wait," Ron said at length. "Clarke told them about Buchanan. And then we saw Harry and Ginny at the Ministry. I'll bet they were checking him out with the Aurors and then, when that didn't yield any results, with Employment."

Buchanan nodded, politely impressed. "That's right. And they took a map of where I purportedly disappeared after my team died. Mallaig." He paused. "They're looking for you and now me, miss, because your Bert Clarke told them I'd been sent to investigate the fire. They quickly found out I hadn't, and now they think I have something to do with why you're missing in action."

"You do, though," I pointed out lightly.

He rolled his eyes. "Sure, but they're pegging me for the bad guy."

I just couldn't help it. "You are, in the legendary battle of power." Hey, the man needed some humour in his life. He deserved it, after everything.

An exasperated Buchanan turned to Ron. "Make her stop or I will."

With a small admonishing smirk, Ron tucked me into his side. "Behave," he whispered into my hair. When he straightened, Buchanan crossed his arms, a pondering expression on his face.

"What's your plan with them?" he asked Ron, referring to Harry and Ginny. "Who are they to you and why are they after your girl?"

Ron's face shuttered as he glanced at me. For a moment I thought he wouldn't answer, but at length he did, taking a deep breath. "She's my sister and he's my best mate… who's engaged to Hermione."

"But it's strictly platonic both ways," I quickly added, wondering even as I did why it mattered that he know that little pesky detail that marked me as surely as a blinking street sign that read "pathetic needy little thing".

A beat passed, and Buchanan's eyes merely flew back and forth between us as if the situation baffled him. "Oh. So that's how it is," he said slowly, and then eyed Ron's arm that circled my waist. Nothing went by him unnoticed. "That's shit."

The silence stretched thin as thought Buchanan waited for either of us to comment first. Finally, Ron did. He squeezed my hand. "They've got to know. Sooner or later they'll run over something that makes no sense."

"They already have," I said, remembering the night I'd found Ron's Triquetra burned on my lawn. No doubt Harry was running over even more bizarre things at this point.

Buchanan turned back to the window and the thick foliage beyond, his back tense as though all his senses were on alert. "It's you call," he murmured uneasily.

Something rattled him about the forest.

#

"So what was it about that Sherman case?"

Ginny had caught up with Harry on the main street, meaning to change the subject that currently seemed very much intent on staying and teasing her with hot flashes of memories. Nevermind the fact that by trying to change it she actually had to get close to him to make small talk, or whisper, as it were.

Harry glanced sideways at her, folding the map he'd just been consulting. Only she saw the small glint of mischief in his eyes as he answered back. "It all started with a woman," he whispered back, bend his head to her theatrically. "She had him good, and she got him bad, too. She fled before he got her name, but she was Sherman, the potion lord we'd been trying to pin for months. _I_ locked her up a year later – it was my first arrest and would have been his first, too – and never let him live it down."

"Wow. Hopkins in love," Ginny marveled quietly. "You don't see that idiot show more than moronism everyday, I suppose."

Arching a bemused brow at her, Harry lowered his voice. "Lust. The Sherman case changed him, Gin. It was a low blow and it almost cost him his job, but it was lust." He paused. "Let's stop here."

As Harry knocked on a door and asked about Hermione and Buchanan, Ginny stood back to spy on Tom and Miranda knocking at another door. A tangible chasm separated the two, all courtesy of Tom deliberately alienating his partner who tried so hard to do well.

How would a man once played by a woman behave around other women on the job? Women he might find threaten his vow never to let himself be so direly had again?

Ginny baffled herself thinking she might not fit his bill at all. After all, he did tell her she was beautiful and date material on a daily basis. Wouldn't a man scorned, scorn the woman he fancied in order to save face this time?

Whoa. Huge deduction. Ginny spied Tom looking pointedly elsewhere as the villager they were currently questioning made Miranda laugh and blush.

Miranda Anton wasn't "ugly", as he repeated endlessly. She wasn't gorgeous either by any means, but she did have striking grey eyes and a nice strong hourglass figure that she worked out long hours for. Besides, wasn't beauty in the eye of the beholder?

"Come on," Harry interrupted her thought mill as he tugged her away to another little country home. "And stop looking at Tom. You're making me jealous," he teased lightly.

Ginny's cheeks fired up with giddy happiness at his remark, but she chose to ignore his obvious attempt at embarrassing her. She wasn't a blushing twelve year-old any longer, even though the blushing bit was truly out of her hands she needed to be blamed on her genes. _Focus on something else, then_. She glanced back to the awkward twosome across the cobbled street and, suddenly unable to keep her discovery to herself any longer, blurted out, "I think he likes her."

With a light chuckle and a playful shove, Harry shot down her theory. "This morning played a trick on you, didn't it?"

"Speaking of!" Ginny jabbed hard at his sternum. "Stop alluding to it. _Your eyes are and you know it_," she gritted between her teeth when he seemed prepared to deny it.

A wicked glint played in Harry's eyes as he glanced down at her mouth. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he drawled, crossing his arms over his chest and silently daring her to call him on his lie. He knew it infuriated her to be right and to be denied acknowledgment. _Bastard_.

"You suck so much," she whispered fiercely, injecting as much venom into the words as she possibly could.

He only grinned more deviously. "You know I do," he deadpanned before clapping her back and moving on.

She stomped past him.

#

This wasn't his home anymore, and yet he would swear on his life that he still felt as aware of his surroundings as he'd ever been. Perhaps even moreso now, when all his senses alerted him that something was way off.

Kyle Buchanan had always been too proud to use wards. As a "regular", he'd contented himself with the conviction that, first, he wasn't home often, and second, the shack was well-hidden in the middle of nature's best. As a Mage, he merely trusted his senses.

_It's your call_.

His senses were playing tricks on him, he decided. He was presumed dead; those who had been looking for ex-Auror-turned-maybe-kidnapper had already passed by. No one else should come.

So why the gooseflesh?

_I'll tell you why_, he told himself wryly. _It's a little thing called paranoia. It comes free of charge with us Guardian/Mage types. Big fun._

Kyle whirled on his heel, putting his back to the window and trying to ignore the faint rustling of leaves and then the dead silence. It drove him mad. There was no wind to speak of so thick in the woods. But he ignored it. Truly, he did.

He looked up instead, meeting the Guardian's – Ron's – eyes. There was intent there. He'd made up his mind and now reached for Granger's hand. "Let's go."

#

"Miranda!" Tom's wild scream suddenly broke the quiet morning silence of the small coastal town.

Harry and Ginny whirled in time to see Hopkins attempt to unarm the hooded figure that had seemingly appeared out of nowehere but… it was wandless. And held Miranda in a deadly neck grip, effectively blocking her air supply even as the poor girl kicked and jabbed in a valiant effort to break free. Townspeople around them went bustling on without a twinge of distress.

"No," Tom cried hoarsely. "No, don't you…" But he was forced to watch Miranda's eyes roll into her head after a moment that seemed to stretch infinitely. "Oh Merlin, no…"

"Oh my God," Ginny breathed in awe that nailed her to the spot. As they watched, Tom scrabbled frantically but uselessly at an invisible wall that kept him at bay. "What is it doing to them? We should stop it." Harry had no answer to give her.

As she spoke, the dark figure slowly inched sideways to peg her with a ruthless expression. Whatever it was, it obviously took without care for what it harmed. "Where is the prophecy?" the figure finally spoke in a hard, feminine voice that belied its sweet pitch. She seemed to aim her question at them all, making it plain that she would not relent until the answer, whatever it could possibly by, was given her.

"We don't know anything about any prophecies!" Harry yelled at her, urging Ginny behind him to shield her lest… something happen to him.

the spell keeping Tom out of the way wavered a franction of an instant as the woman seemed depleted by the response. "You're lying," she snapped, a desperate plea glowing in her eyes. "He told you, he must have told you."

"_Who?_" Ginny shot back, fighting Harry to disentangle herself. She was more than capable to defend herself if need be.

The figure showed naked uncertainty, her mouth hanging open a long time as she seemed to debate whether they told the truth or not. "He – he didn't show himself to you?"

Her defenses were down, Harry reckoned. Now would be the time to strike.

Ginny never relented in her attempt to get an explanation even as she fought Harry to step out from behind him. "Who are you talking about?"

Harry recognised the renewed hope of finding her brother in her voice, hated that it would be shot down just as utterly because, dammit, their initial investigation had yielded nothing more than more questions and surely that didn't bode well, right?

Suddenly, the hooded woman's eyes widened and Miranda's body slipped from her grasp.

Too many things happened at once to make immediate sense to Harry. The invisible field released; Tom scrambled to his partner's body, cradling her head gently in his lap; a single word escaped the hooded figure in a frightened whisper: "Honos?" Ginny gasped – "Ron?" – clawing at Harry's arms so hard he thought she might draw blood. And then he registered three new figures but couldn't see from the sudden haze that blurred his vision.

"Harry!" He thought he saw Hermione run at him but surely he was delirious. "Is he bleeding?" he heard dream-Hermione ask in a frightened voice amid various deafening sounds of battle. _Blimey_, he though, _now's not the best time to hallucinate the Final Battle_.

"No, it was her," Ginny's voice answered. "She shot a Confundus at him. My God, Hermione, it's so good to see you."

Dream-Hermione sniffed. "Likewise. Now let's get out of the way before it gets really ugly."

"I'm fine, girls," Harry grunted sluggishly as they lifted him body to his feet. The spell was slowly wearing off and though he still couldn't see clearly, he didn't feel like being babied. "Where's Tom? How's Miranda? – Who's _that_?" he said, gesturing to a second hooded figure that was battling… Ron. "Ron?" He scrunched up his nose. Yeah, that was definitely him. Unless he truly was losing his head.

"That's Buchanan and he says he's actually good," Hermione replied business-like, still trying to steer him away. "Yes, that's Ron. Don't worry, he can take care of himself. I'll explain later. Or let him explain, whichever."

"Tom…" he said just as a sharp blast ricocheted past their heads to zoom right back into the fray.

Ginny glanced back and cursed. "I'll be right back."

At that Harry reached for her, but his vision was still way off. "No, Gin!" She was already gone. "What the hell's going on? Take the spell away, dammit!"

Hermione took his hand in hers, stroking as reassuringly as possible considering she too was shaken. "You know it doesn't work that way," she reasoned quietly, eyes darting to the fray and back in worry. She winced as Ron gave a wounded bellow, then deliberately turned her back to the fight, visibly jarred by the ordeal just as much as he was confused and rattled.

As Harry watched the open street where the magical combat seemed to have broken completely, he felt increasingly… speechless. First, that Ron was alive. That had to take the candle. Second, that he seemed to have acquired some kind of depthless power in his seven years away, so much so that he appeared as invincible as the hooded figures. Whatever was thrown Ron's way, he moved deftly and seemed to counter easily. Well, most of it. On top of cloaking the street in an anti-Muggle charm to repel non-magical folk and… protect them, even. And, additionally, he _was_ fighting two powerful opponents, whatever Hermione had said about the Buchanan bloke.

"I know how you feel," she suddenly said, breaking into his thoughts. "It's hard to stay here doing nothing when he's out there in the thick of it." She worried her lip. "I've been doing a lot of that lately."

"Got them!" Ginny reappeared next to them with Tom and Miranda, who was conscious again. The latter sported an angry red mark around the column of her throat and breathed with difficulty, but was otherwise apparently unscathed. No, it was Tom, wand out and trembling as he attempted to heal her bruises, who seemed the worse for wear.

"Thanks," was Miranda's grateful murmur when she was finally able to breathe without a noticeable rasp.

But already he was stomping off, murder in his eyes. "Let me get back there–" he exploded when Ginny yanked him back.

Irritated, she merely rolled her eyes and hauled him back bodily. "Stay here, you suicidal moron. You'll only get killed out there," she reasoned sensibly, jerking her chin at the near-slaughter beyond.

"Hermione…" Harry had finally reached the end of his patience. Scowling openly, he growled out, "What the _hell_ is going on and who is that woman?"

At his words, she frowned her surprise, then looked out at the makeshift battlefield where hexes flew like potent bombs. Then recognition hit her and she looked truly shellshocked for the first time since the ordeal had begun… and maybe even a little frightened. "Oh my God," she breathed, "that's Robin."


	11. Standstill

**Author's note**: _So_ sorry it took me so long. School got in the way, and then two other fandoms snared me in (not complaining here) more recently. In fact I think you have those fandoms (_Sky High _and _Gossip Girl_ - am I regressing into my high school self? Be scared, be very scared!) to thank for getting me to pick up a pencil again this month because I sure as hell haven't been doing anything but studying and working on assignments for school. University be damned!

Anyway. As always, do enjoy!

* * *

**CHAPTER TEN : STANDSTILL**

"And who is…?" one of them asked me, and although I could hear perfectly well, what I now saw before my eyes simply commanded all of my attention. How had Robin found us before we'd even arrived? This looked more and more like a planned ambush. She'd known we'd come here. That meant… she'd heard us discussing our plans in Buchanan's shack.

Even now I could see Buchanan approach his window in my mind's eye. There'd been an odd expression painted there, like… he knew someone was watching? He'd been alerted to a foreign presence outside? In the latter case he might have just chalked it up to some woodland animal. In the former case he might have just made sure Robin heard exactly what we said. Oh, this was too confusing.

"Wait," the man I'd pulled down said suddenly. Vaguely I recognised him as someone Harry had briefly introduced me to a few years ago. Tim? No, Tom. "Look at them. _Look_ at them."

Ginny gasped. "Someone tell me I'm not dreaming."

They watched in silence as Buchanan and Robin fired one spell after another at Ron, who deflected each hit with impressive calm and strength. His movements were precise, unhurried, seemingly rehearsed. He blocked and parried each round, spells and hexes arcing in the air in front of him without end.

"Okay," Harry growled suddenly, all trace of the Confundus gone from his system as he rounded on me. "You tell us now, Hermione. What the hell are we dealing with? She talked about a prophecy. What prophecy?"

For a second I'd debated whether this was really the right time but when he mentioned the prophecy I tensed, going ramrod straight. Shit. Now they were in deep, too.

Yes, I decided then and there, they all needed to know what was at stake here if we wanted to take action. Maybe their expertise would help. Biting my lip, I dove straight in. "The prophecy talks about a band of extraordinarily gifted wizards," I began. "They can produce magic like we've never dreamed of, thanks to a traumatic near-death experience that, I think, releases all the dormant magical inhibitors we all have inside ourselves. They allow them to concentrate their energy into, well, that," I finished lamely, pointing to the scene at hand.

"But what are they?" Ginny breathed, her eyes locked on her brother warily. Indeed, Ron _was_ scary the first time.

Well, now was the hardest part to sell. "Ron and Robin are members of the Guardian Brotherhood. Buchanan – that's the dark head – is from the Mage Society.

"Yes," I said dryly, "the legends are true and the proof is right there. But, getting back to the prophecy… Ron was supposed to fetch it for the Brotherhood but we lost it." _To Buchanan_, I wanted to add, but restrained myself for some unfathomable reason. "Now Ron's hunted by his own people and here we are."

As if to prove my point, Robin's voice thundered in the street. "Where is the prophecy, Honos?"

Harry stroked his cheek and stared at me a long moment, mulling over the facts I'd just spewed at them. "I'll buy that," he agreed at length. "It beats not being able to understand everything we've learned in the past few days. But what's in the prophecy?" he asked reluctantly.

Prophecies and Harry did not make good friends. If anything, the one that had plagued all of his teenaged years had only made him suspicious of them. They usually involved dreary events and deaths. In his experience, at least. In all of ours, I'd wager.

"It says that one Guardian will eliminate the threat of Mages," I answered as Robin's face contorted with fury. Ron's Body-Bind had finally hit home. I couldn't seem to feel any thrill at his having overpowered her. Even now Buchanan seemed hell-bent on bringing him down, too.

"How?" Tom asked, and I turned back to them.

"It only says that he is born thrice of fire in the twenty-first of Yaveh – this century, I suppose – and must find his soul," I answered distractedly, my ear trained to the sounds behind.

Suddenly a spell of Buchanan's rammed into Ron's chest, effectively slamming the air out of his lungs and drawing him to his knees in a wheezing breath.

_Get up, Ron, get up_. When nothing happened, I turned to the others. An unspoken agreement was immediately struck between my companions before they stood with me. As one, they drew their wands out. "Be careful," was my only advice before I rushed Buchanan, effectively knocking him off-balance and to the side.

"Get the fuck off me!" was his instant spiel in my face as I jabbed my wand jerkily into his throat.

Glaring, I bent low. "Give me one damn reason…" I growled, pressing down harder. The betraying bastard! He expected me to just let him go his merry way? What did he think I was… thick?

"Have it your way, and by the way – _watch out!_" In a split instant he rolled me under him and sprang a hex toward an approaching – and unfrozen – Robin who ducked out of the way.

Buchanan was not to be defeated; he jumped to him feet and caught up to her. Apparently, the others had reached them as well with such intent that, for a brief moment, I saw Robin's first show of true human emotion… Fear. Complete, unadulterated fear in the face of such a head-on attack, even by mere "regulars".

"Get the fuck away from me!" I heard her screech as I stumbled to Ron who was sitting up with some difficulty.

"Tell me where you hurt," I demanded of Ron immediately, patting and prodding whatever limb I could find. My fingers were shaky for the second time that very same day, but I dared not slow down for fear of letting the terror I knew would seep in if I did. I had to be business-like and in control. How hard could it be, really?

Ron pointed to his chest, and I deftly ripped his shirt open to prod. For once he didn't putter around trying to ignore the pain. This told me clearly he was way past his pain threshold. At his hiss I pointed my wand at the affected sternum, hoping my Healing spell would work despite my blatant lack of talent in that area.

Idly I lifted my head to survey the unfolding events and found the others had overpowered Robin – oh, not magically, she could take them all. The good thing with humans is, we feel. I'm sure Robin was cursing her emotions, because they currently hindered her rational thinking. Because she hadn't had as much training as, say, Ron, she wasn't used to such nerve-wracking situations as the one she was currently stuck in. The Elder Aine would have to suffer another defeat because it seemed like the Syn Wyngyn foursome were getting to her. Without her head to direct her actions, she was quickly subdued as Harry and company shot spell after spell after her.

"How's your little problem?" Ron grunted suddenly, jolting me back to his prone form under me. He eyed me critically, studying my features for telltale reactions but… to be honest there was so much going on that my innards hadn't manifested themselves besides clenching at the right moments when things had gotten dangerous for Ron.

"Good, actually. You? Can you sit up?" He did, slowly at first then with more confidence.

"I think she's about to bolt." I hadn't even realised Buchanan had stayed but then I realised he'd been helping me Heal Ron. Decidedly, one could go loopy from trying to follow his allegiances. Well, at least there was never a dull moment. Speechless, I jerked my head a little in a thankful gesture that he returned grimly. The next instant he glanced up, cursed, and was gone. We watched him reappear next to Robin, who screamed as she was grabbed from behind. Then… nothing.

"She's gone!" Ginny yelled in disbelief, running toward us. Buchanan, too, had disappeared. As she reached our spot, she froze, catching her brother's eye, and took a deep, shuddering breath. "Is… is that really you?" she murmured, falling to her knees before him.

Of course, now that the danger seemed to have passed, she was finally able to breathe and think.

"I… I wanted to believe you were still…" Ginny started again haltingly, drawing closer and touching his cheek. Her hand was featherlight on his skin, almost as if she were afraid he would disintegrate into dust under her fingertips.

Frozen, Ron blinked as she burrowed deeper into his chest, squeezing like she never wanted to let go.

"But I was scared of what I'd find. I thought it'd be easier if I found out… the truth." Her lips had started trembling at the last, and though it was hard to imagine strong, tenacious Ginny Weasley crying, the tears suddenly welled in her eyes and she threw herself at Ron.

I watched him closely for his reaction to his tearful reunion with his little sister. At first he seemed at a loss for what to do. It was long in coming, but Ron finally hugged Ginny back fiercely after a moment, muttering in her hair, "I missed you, Ginbug."

An open sob wracked Ginny's body. "I missed you too, prat," she replied before thumping his shoulder and drawing back, beaming through her tears. "Now what?"

Harry approached then, clasping Ron's arm to pull him up. A wide grin stretched his lips. "They're her two favourite words," he imparted proudly, glancing at Ginny with a twinkle in his eye.

Well, that made me rear back. That hadn't been the business-like glance that politely said, "glad things are good, let's get back on track shall we?" There was definitely something there…

Ron, oblivious as always, scanned the street. Now that the Muggle-repelling charm had lifted after Robin's departure – I'll hand it to her, she at least had had the decency to hide this clusterfuck from prying eyes – Muggles had started to pour out of their homes in droves, pointing and gasping at the destruction in the vicinity in hushed whispers. Robin hadn't thought about _that_, had she.

"Where's Buchanan?" Ron suddenly wondered aloud.

"Disappeared with Robin," I replied quietly, wondering even as I did whether that was good or bad. After all, he _had_ helped me Heal Ron without even attempting to wound him further. Unless he operated under my defenses. Frowning, I glanced back at Ron, assessing his posture and anything else that might look off.

No, nothing.

At that moment I decided on the spot that I hated probably double agents. They were hell on the nerves.

"She's never gone out of the Coven before this, as far as I know," Ron continued, stroking his scruffed chin thoughtfully.

"She might have been at Buchanan's when –"

Ron cut into my thoughts, snapping his fingers. "We were talking about following you all here," he finished, nodding his head at the Syn Wyngyn foursome. "But she wouldn't have gone back there. She'd go –"

"Somewhere she wouldn't feel outnumbered," I deadpanned automatically. I saw the logic in that thought – she'd felt vastly incapacitated when Harry, Ginny and the rest had started in on her. "The Coven, then?"

Ron nodded somberly.

Oh, dear. If we'd previously had a hope of bringing the Coven down unawares, it had just gotten a little more complicated. Take, for one, the fact that now they'd know we were on to them thanks to Robin's little eavesdropping. Take the fact that their total magical power was vastly superior to our little band's and… we were screwed, in so many words.

"Where is this Coven?" Harry asked when the silence had stretched so long it seemed ready to snap.

Tom spoke up from behind Harry. "Er, mate, you sure you want to get into this? Because from what we just saw, we'll have our arses handed to us on a silver platter if we land in a room full of that."

I watched Harry lock his jaw and grind his teeth. He'd gone into pensive mode, eyes locked onto his newly-found best mate as though afraid Ron would disappear from right under his nose again.

"What's your name?" Ron asked curtly before Tom could think to add more.

"Tom Hopkinks, why?" the other replied with a wary frown.

Ron cocked his head, pegging him with an intense flare of annoyance. "Because I don't need cowards. You?" He pointed to the woman next to Hopkins who'd hardly spoken or moved during the exchange.

"Miranda Anto," she muttered quietly, to which Ron merely nodded distractedly.

"You'd better make up your minds now," Ron growled at them all when it seemed they'd reached a standstill of undecisiveness.

"You know I'm with you," I supplied gently, slipping my hand into his and squeezing the tension out of his fingers. They relaxed visibly in my grasp, and I was pleasantly surprised when he even brushed his thumb over our linked fingers.

Without a word, he pegged the rest with a hard stare, his impatience passing like current in my hand. We were wasting precious time…

"I'm in," Harry breathed with a nod, then clasped Ron's hand. Years of potent friendship were revived in that fierce grasp.

Ginny merely nodded, and though she was second to voice her decision, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that she would have followed her brother to the end of the Earth, years apart be damned.

Miranda took a long look at Ginny and then nodded as well; Tom glanced broodingly at his partner and grudgingly agreed.

And so we were off. "Take my arm," Ron instructed before the first tingles of his powering up fluttered into my body. I tightened my hold on his hand and prepared myself for… well, maybe-nausea as I saw everyone else grab hold of his other arm. The familiar gut-wrenching sensation rolled into me, and finally we shattered through space.

#

The next few instants were a blur. As we rematerialised inside the Coven's austere entrance hall, a sound to my right arrested me just before I could begin searching for Robin and Buchanan. They'd also Apparated inside the hall from what I could feel.

Anyway. The sound. A breath catching painfully. Buchanan's, to be exact. Robin held him bodily against the wall, a hand shoved up to press against his windpipe. As Ron turned to the sound, the rest of us all did, too, witnesses to Buchanan's quickly reddening face and his captor's sickly triumphant grin. Oh, she was proud, the chit. Her first successful mission, wasn't it? Mummy would be so proud.

"All this for a prophecy… _Ron_," she nagged sweetly. "You could have simply done your job right and handed it over. None of this would have happened. But _no_, the great _Honos_, in whom the whole Circle vested so much trust, got cold feet. I've always wondered whether you were really all that cut out for the Brotherhood. Someone must have made a mistake. _I_ should have been the one from the start. I'd been there longer, ever since I was a kid."

"What on earth are you talking about?" Ron demanded levelly.

She grinned wider, and I could have called her a gorgeous young woman if it hadn't been for that trace of malice in her eyes. "They never told you? Now that's a lark."

Ron glanced at me, unease beginning to settle onto his features, his stance. Suddenly we were on moving ground again, whipped with the unknown. How many more secrets did we have yet to discover? How bad would this one get? My insides knotted as we waited for her to continue, and I tasted bitter misgivings.

Robin chuckled gently, as one might at a particularly troublesome child. "Mother read me the prophecy as a child, told me I might live up to its words. Now, how does it go again? Ah…

"A legend, older than wizardry itself  
Tells that the Brotherhood of Guardians  
Will prosper for one thousand years, teaching  
Their brethren to serve the greater good.

The Circle of Elders warns that a rogue cohort  
Shall pursue the Brotherhood on a wind of betrayal  
And cast it and its legendary warriors into darkness.

But fear not despair –"

Robin cut herself off with a laugh. "And this is the best part:

"But fear not despair, children of Odin  
For the one born thrice of fire  
In the twenty-first of Yahve  
Shall prevail when he finds his soul.

Then shall the Guardian Brotherhood  
Thrive for a thousand years more."

Pausing for effect, Robin tightened her hold on Buchanan, who wheezed a moment before turning red and coughing. "Sorry," she said without feeling. "So you see, I was born in the twenty-first century after Christ, I have never lost my soul, and I was born thrice of fire: in a broken home, from a C-section, and I manifested my higher powers when my father drove us into a tree. Course, he died in the ensuing fire, but I sparked to power then."

A melancholy smile graced her lips at the memory until she got a grip on herself, her eyes hardened to stone as they settled onto Ron once more. "You had no right to become a Guardian! Now they think it's _you!_"

"Me what?" Ron thundered, and the sound echoed dully in the bare hall, the words reverberating as though from another realm. _What… what… what…_

_It's you_, I thought, the words sticking in my brain incessantly. Twenty-first century. Finds his soul… mate? Or something less obvious. Soul… I scrounged my memories, trying to grasp onto something that could explain the riddle, fast. True reality elevates the soul. Where had I learned that? Inconsequential.

Soul. Truth. When he finds his _truth_.

Born thrice of fire. Two were obvious. Born a redhead. Born during the First War against Voldemort. And… The next one was more difficult. I looked to Ron, trying to recall past conversations.

Mrs. Weasley had told me once… "As for Ronnie here…" I whispered her words to myself. _I never should have checked the clock, it was bad for the baby. But I did. Gideon and Fabian's arrows wouldn't stop spinning. So I grabbed some Floo powder and stepped into the fire. And that's when I had my first contractions… The stress, you know…_

Stymied, I clutched Ron's hand hard. "She's right," I said softly, hoarsely.

"What?" Ron frowned down at me, confusion scrunching his face.

In that short instant when Ron's attention had snapped, Robin released a sputtering Buchanan, murder and intent burning in her eyes. As she aimed at Ron, I instinctively pointed my wand at her chest, crying whatever spell first came to mind. "_Impedimenta!_" Several other spells followed afterward, and I smiled, thinking that a reincarnation of Dumbledore's Army had just been revived.

The assault merely made her flinch, though it bought Ron enough time to turn and fire his own spell before she could react and protect herself. "_IMPEDIMENTA!_" he yelled, and the walls shook from the sheer volume of his voice. This time the spell did its job well, and we all watched as she flew clear into the air, crashing headlong into a wall.

"Wow. Shit," came Hopkins's awed remark.

Ginny merely ran up to Ron, throwing herself into his arms.

But one person had a grim face as he straightened with difficulty, wheezing with a flinch. I walked over to Buchanan, hesitating to offer a hand in comfort and thanks. "Are you okay?" I asked instead, wincing at the awkwardness in my tone.

He shook his head grimly, and for the first time he truly looked into my eyes. what I saw in his gaze frightened me. Urgency. "Something's wrong here," he rasped without any of his usual derisory inflection. "This… this is my Coven. I don't understand how she could have taken me here."

"What?"

But his eyes widened, and suddenly he pulled me behind him as the twin jets penetrated his chest. Before him stood Aine. Beyond, her daughter lay crumpled against the wall, a shit-eating grin stretching her rosy lips and a low chuckle escaping them. A dozen of dark hooded figures awaited in the shadows.

Buchanan's body reared, twisting at an unnatural angle, before it suddenly fell in a lifeless heap at my feet.

I forgot how to talk, much less yell. My body wasn't under my command anymore, and I experienced white-hot fear that paralysed all thought but one: _we're all going to die._

The entire occupants of the hall stood quite still, a heavy lull of disbelief falling over us all as we waited, waited for the last pin to fall. Cold enveloped me at the thought that we were all powerless. Even Ron, who was our last hope, was no match against them all.

This was it. The end.

"So you see," Aine spoke up, her clear, husky voice carrying and caressing tenderly, "the deception is no more. For centuries, the Circle waited for one to rise and defeat the others. We wondered… would it be a Guardian? A Mage? We studied every newcomer's history, hoping they would fulfill the prophecy.

"In this century, only three have survived to this day. I simply quickened the process of elimination." She paused, eyeing Buchanan's body with irked distate, then looked up and pegged Ron with a fierce, piercing gaze that was entirely her own. "As Fate would seem to have it, two Guardians now remain."

A slow smile split her lips. "Let the games begin."

#

Ron swallowed hard and tore away from Ginny as Robin slid up off the wall, swaying slightly on her feet.

"It'll be _me_," she said searingly, aiming a spell that rebounded off her target easily.

He didn't reply, merely stared back, awaiting her next offensive.

"You think you're more powerful than I am?" she snapped defiantly with another paralysing hex that missed him by an inch. "My mother is an Elder. I _am_ powerful!"

"These powers aren't handed down, Robin," Ron pointed out calmly.

"_You don't deserve them_, you – you –" Her scream suddenly rent the air, a desperate cry of the soul, before her eyes moved over the little group huddled together out of harm's way. It took a second, and Ron had no time to react as the spell shot out of her outstretched hand… green.

"NO!"

#

He didn't know whom it killed, but nothing mattered anymore, nothing more than ending this contest _now_.

_I'm no angel_.

It had to be done, he finally realised, understanding. The pressure alone would kill him, but he _had_ to die.

_He is ready_.

The whole room closed in on him, shadowed figures moving as one in one suffocating mass. He felt them all as infinitely small pawns as the magic rumbled in him, rendering them powerless against the sheer energy that enveloped him. they moved so slow, so slow. Every millisecond he felt death like the Circle he'd once looked up to gaining reign on him. And then… warmth enclosed his hand.

Hermione.

"We'll siphon," she whispered as more warmth wrapped around his hands. Four. Five in all. And then he cried out, unable to hold it in any longer. Death escaped him outward as an explosion that rendered all but those he sheltered to dust.


	12. Hold On, Shatter and Crawl

**Author's note**: I am _so_ sorry for making you guys wait. My excuse? School was one of them at first, but then I got to writing and thinking something was wrong. I spent months trying to figure out how to fix the chapter when it seemed I'd totally hit a block regarding Guardian. The problem was actually that I hadn't re-read the end of chapter 10 and I'd totally forgotten one _very_ important detail. You'll understand :)

This one's shorter than usual because... this is the last one (well, I'll write an epilogue to tie earlier things up re: Mr Clarke et al)! Actually, let me repeat myself: _it's (almost) OVER!_

Enjoy!

* * *

**CHAPTER ELEVEN: HOLD ON, SHATTER AND CRAWL**

"Harry?"

The murmur seemed to come from so far away amidst the deafening rumble that roared all around him, through him. _Where are we?_ was the question that immediately popped into his head, until the last… oh, it must have been no longer than an hour… rushed through him at breakneck speed.

He surfaced like a drowning man, reality crashing into him as he recalled with clarity what had just happened… and what must now be happening.

"The hall's crumbling!" Tom's scream pierced the groans. Sure enough, more pieces of roofing rained down on them.

"Gin!" Harry attempted to stand up by leaning on the nearest wall, but still his knees shook, unable to support him, both from the earth-shattering earthquake and from a taxing muscular exhaustion the likes of which he'd never felt before. "Where are you, Gin? Are you okay? Talk to me," he shouted, coughing as clouds of dust rose and rose, impeding both breath and sight.

"Here," she said weakly, and at once he saw her shock of red hair standing out starkly against the rubble and dust. "I've Hermione and Ron with me…"

Both were out cold, he saw when he reached her, and she didn't look that good herself.

More roofing fell, darkness sinking onto them. If Harry had actually cared, he might have noticed there was merely a yawning void beyond. Bare depthlessness. As it was, the moment was sorely inopportune and he _didn't_ care. The Coven was currently falling in on itself and if they didn't get out soon… He didn't even want to think about where that thought was heading.

Pulling the threesome closer to the wall for protection, he lurched to his feet, reluctant to let Ginny's hand go. "Stay here. I'll go find the others."

Before she could get a weak refusal out, he'd sunk into the dust once more.

#

Pitter patter.

Pitter patter.

No, that was my head. Or… falling stones, I decided upon listening more closely to the sound. There… irregularities.

Patter patter pitter _patter_.

Turning my head, I felt something light move over my face. sand? No, there were rocks here. Stone dust, then.

"Hermione?" a soft voice called, and I recognised Ginny's voice. Exhausted. So exhausted, like me.

Trying to see her, I opened my eyes, blinked away the grains in the way, and focused. "…'s everyone?" I croaked out before swallowing around the parched dryness in my throat and trying again. "Where's everyone?"

Biting her lip, Ginny glanced into the soupy fog that encircled us for just a moment, but I caught the general lines of her worry for one person in particular. Then the moment was gone, and Ginny, still silent, pointed her chin at my side. The constant weight against me was Ron. _Thank God._ He breathed.

Sinister cracks suddenly resounded, followed by a cringe-inducing crash down. Though we both tensed up, Ginny actually inched forward, only to sigh in relief when Harry lurched out of the renewed cloud of dust, a body in his arms.

The woman, Tom's partner. She wasn't moving, her body limp and her slack head thrown back and bobbing up and down with each step he took. She looked…

As he set her down, Harry regarded first Ginny, then me, that legendary grim set to his jaw and fierceness of expression that had made him famous – moreso than even his scar in times of battle – during the war on his face. He was a man in charge. "We can't get out of here without his power, right?" he asked, jerking his head at Ron's unconscious body.

"I don't think so," I grated out. Apparating straight into his cell had copped a lot out of Ron that one time I was with him. Would it be possible for him to Disapparate after having used so much power in the past few minutes? I hated to, but I had to wake Ron again. "I'll wake him up," I told Harry, who looked ready to bolt again. So he did, to find his friend.

At a guess I'd say it was more than time we hightailed it; the walls themselves were rumbling, wracked with instability. More than ever the ceiling rained down on us. So I got to business, shaking Ron gently.

"Ron," I called softly, sliding a cool hand onto his sweat-dampened brow. He moaned, turning his face into the sensation, then frowned.

"Where 'm I?" came his husky croak as his eyes cracked open.

Ginny coughed next to me. "The Coven, still," she managed between hacks.

Taking his chin in my hand, I forced him to focus. Dawning awareness sparked in his eyes as the ceiling briefly caught his attention. He drew himself up on shaking arms.

"We need to get out of here," I said, hoping the urgency in my voice got through to him.

Ron grunted, rubbing his eyes with the heel of a palm. The message got through all right. Next second he was back in control of the situation. "Where's everyone?"

"Harry's getting–" Ginny began, but was interrupted as a large misshappen blob appeared in the fog.

Harry's voice preceded him. "We're here." Tom limped next to him, leaning on Harry's sturdy frame for support.

"Miranda?" Tom cried when he saw her, before dropping to her side. "Is – is she…" But there was no need to answer. Her unseeing eyes stared forevermore into nothingness. Carefully, Tom closed them, then slid his hand in her stiff, still warm one.

"What about Buchanan?" I asked point-blank, hating to break the moment.

Ron shook his head jerkily. "No time." Then awareness seeped into me. Despite his sickly pallor, Ron had begun gathering his remaining energy to get us all out before the place fell completely apart. "Now, everyone gather round," he instructed, extending trembling hands to us.

As soon as I slipped my hand into his, the Coven began to fall in on itself, walls crumbling with loud groans intersperced with bomb-like smashes, and I looked up… eyes widening in horror. The scream I'd been about to let out died in my throat as, suddenly, a pulling sensation began deep in my belly.

"Hold… on…"

#

The night was dark, a storm brewing in the horizon. Ginny lay back against the warm body enveloping her, and inhaled deeply, the tangy dual scents of rain and adrenaline-laced sweat thick on her tongue. even now, she felt the frequent aftershocks of fear shivering through her entire body. Even now, as Harry's body pressed against her on the night-soaked grass, Ginny reckoned she likely wouldn't feel warm in a long while. But at least she knew she was alive… and she wasn't alone. The hand that clutched her was icy, vice-tight around her, and quivered.

It was then she realised she hadn't believed. She'd thought them brave goners as soon as they'd landed in the Coven, acting purely on automatic impulse because they'd been taught well.

"I'm so sorry," Harry suddenly rasped behind her. He racked his throat, and she heard the parched quality to it. His trip is dust central had taken its toll on his lungs. "I dragged you into this."

"Nonsense," she replied immediately, turning to face him. "I'm a stubborn bitch and you know it."

Wearily Harry averted his gaze, searching over her shoulder for the others laying haphazardly next to them in like exhaustion.

"How are they?" Ginny whispered.

He gazed at her again. "Same. What about us?" he added quietly, almost off-handedly, and his hand tightened around hers involuntarily.

Ginny closed her eyes, sighing at the injustice of it all, and then replied in her best unaffected tone, "My lips are sealed. In fact, I've already forgotten all about it. Luckily we didn't risk a baby. Happy?"

"Gin…"

"Go and play your role."|

Silence expanded thickly between them for a moment. "I can't, Gin," he uttered hoarsely, then drew her into a kiss.

She pushed him away, not ungently, then studied him. "What do you want, Harry?" _Who?_

In a tender gesture laced with sorror, Harry brushed a strand of her hair back. "I love _you_, Ginny."

The quiet confession rendered Ginny speechless, her heart beating a wild tattoo in her chest as she stared into Harry's unwavering, earnest eyes. Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes, and she swiped at them furiously even as he gathered her gently into his arms. Ginny simply clutched at him as if her life depended on it, and suddenly she realised her body was warming in his. The notion had her smiling secretly into his chest.

"Did I do or say something wrong?" she heard the rumble of his uneasy voice through his chest.

"No… no…" she managed beyond the tight knot of her throat.

Warily, he asked again, "You're just happy?"

She laughed in a sudden burst. "I'm just happy," she agreed.

Ron suddenly broke into the moment, ambling over to verify they were unscathed. "Are you lot okay?" Seeing Ginny's tears, however, his voice took on a different tone entirely. "Is Ginny hurt?"

"Your big brother's back," Harry murmured dryly to her, clearly amused.

She chuckled, then pulled back with a smile to look at her brother. "I'm fine, Ron."

The latter still looked uncertain, though, as he pegged first her then Harry, a calculating look in his eyes. "Is there–" he began, but was called off by Hermione who was bent over Hopkins's injured leg. "We need to talk," Ron threw pointedly over his shoulder at Harry and Ginny before joining her.

"I think I'm dreading that talk," Harry muttered to himself.

Ginny had to agree as she glanced at Ron's retreating back. power oozed out of her brother in spades. "I think he could have killed you on the spot if he'd wanted," she said, remembering the scowl on her brother's face as he'd seemed to understand she and Harry were… close.

Harry groaned. "Hurrah for small wonders."

Grinning, Ginny leaned in and pecked his mouth in a tender kiss. "I love you too, you know."

#

"Thank you," Hopkins managed quietly after Ron and Hermione had worked his leg back into some semblance of shape. At least they'd removed most of the pain. He'd probably need better resetting, however.

Drawing Hermione off to the side, Ron spoke in a low voice so as not to be overheard. "We might not be the only ones who made it out alive."

He saw Hermione trying that thought on for size. "What are you thinking?" she asked at length.

"I don't know…" he breathed, and she recognised the vulnerability in his haunted eyes.

"Ron," she began tentatively, "you're the one from the prophecy… It's over…"

He raked a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the roughness of his movement. "Since when do you believe some seer's tripe anyway?"

"Because I believe in you," Hermione replied. "You've always been a leader, Ron, always following your own path unflinchingly." She stepped into him, stroking his roughened cheek, and held his eyes, willing him to believe in himself, too. "Your beliefs have led to this. Can't you see? You've done right by yourself and you've rid the world of some medieaval Coven that betrayed you all."

Ron sighed, averting his eyes. "I didn't know that, before."

"Didn't you really?" Hermione challenged, forcing his chin back to face her. "You never felt betrayed?" And her fingers slid to the sore welts in his back, making him suck in a harsh breath. Her eyes stayed on him a moment longer, before she leaned in and kissed him. "You need to believe at least this about yourself, Ron."

Ron captured her lips again when she pulled away. "There's something else," he said, holding her pressed to him. "Harry and Ginny…"

Hermione nodded imperceptibly. "I saw."

"Break it off. Please," Ron rushed out without thinking, though not without feeling.

Hermione grinned. "You know there's nothing between Harry and me…" she said teasingly before lifting herself on her toes to peck him gently on the lips.

His eyes darkened as she pulled back. "Yeah. Still… break it," he said before walking away to help Tom up to his feet.

Hermione was still shaking her head as she watched him go. "'Course, love. Anything, love."

#

Curiously, he only found a hollow emptiness when he tried to figure out what his chest was trying to tell his head. Tom simply stared at the cloth-covered body of the woman he'd consistently railed against as she was being taken to the morgue at St. Mungo's, and felt… nothing.

No, there, a tiny flicker, a tiny part of him that tightened and twisted. He rubbed his chest, turning away.

He should never have taken her on.

Harry's arm wound around Tom's shoulder as he limped away on his crutches. Support. Tom flinched at the contact but held his tongue. attempted to smirk when Ginny walked a pace behind him. "Why is it that you lot are fucking untouchable while the rest of us have to suffer cuts and broken bones all the bleeding time?"

They reached Ron and Hermione waiting by the front doors. no one spoke as they exited the bustling hospital.

* * *

**Author's note**: I realise I've kind of left an opening for a sequel, what with Ron doubting all the Guardians/Mages went down with the Coven (some could have been out on missions, that kind of thing). And also with Tom's reinforced woman-"hating". I never thought I'd actually bring any OC's so deep into the mix but Buchanan, Hopkins and Miranda really jumped out and wanted their stories told *shrug* Dunno if I'll decide to write a sequel but I like that I left that open in case I get inspired :)

Anyway, there's still an epilogue to write and _hopefully_ it won't take me eons this time around!


	13. Not Over Yet

**Author's note**: "Oh my God!" you'll say. "She wrote!" Yes, yes she did. I have to admit I'm a bit shaky at writing at this point because I've been in an almost complete writer's block across fandoms for about a year. You can blame school first, and now work. I work for two weekly newspapers and it's chaos all the time. All. The. Time. So when I come home or have my Wednesdays off, I like to just relax and take it easy.

Right. I've had part of the epilogue written for ages, but never quite got around to finishing it. Today's Thanksgiving here in Canada, and I definitely give thanks for finally finishing this damn mammoth. It's been fun, and it's not over yet. Oh, crap, I've become a cliché, quoting my own chapter title. *facepalm*

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**EPILOGUE: NOT OVER YET**

"Remind me never to follow wild goose trails like this ever again," Harry grunted as he later followed Ginny into her flat.

Where she suddenly pinned him against the barely-closed front door, stopping him in the middle of a yawn and stretch. As it was, he was stuck with his arms in the air as she giggled and nibbled at his lips playfully. "Why? So you don't have to shake in your boots when you ask my brother if it's all right to date me?"

Harry groaned in disgust, attempting to dislodge her.

She held on tight, grinning into his face and stroking his hair. "You should have seen your face when he demanded you break it off with Hermione." She giggled.

He swatted her hand away half-heartedly, grabbing both her hands before she made a petting dog out of him. "He's positively draconian. Are we sure that blonde raving maniac's mum didn't do a number on him?"

Ginny's smile faltered. "Don't say that. Hermione wouldn't say, but I saw the way he held himself after... you know. Stiffly," she said. "As if he was avoiding sudden movement."

Sighing wearily, Harry rested the back of his head against the door, wrapping Ginny loosely within his arms. "Yeah, I saw."

Contemplating the latter, neither voicing suspicions for it was highly unlikely either of them would ever get close to the truth, it was some time before Ginny spoke again, softly. "Speaking of wounds, how's Tom?"

Harry drew in a deep breath, brow creased in concern. "Wish I knew. I saw him off at his flat earlier. He's irascible, miserable, and he won't see that leg fixed." Harry rolled his eyes. "Says it's to remind him."

"Remind him of what?"

"Why people die around him," Harry answered deadpan.

"What?" She scoffed. "He didn't have a thing to do with Miranda's death. She was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Period."

Shrugging, Harry opened his eyes to find Ginny's puzzled face turned up to his. "Gin," he began, "look. I saw you die in my nightmare and I couldn't do a damned thing about it. It drove me nuts." He smiled wryly, brushing back a strand of red hair that had fallen over her cheek. "In spite of women's suffrage and emancipation and all that, it's wired in men's brains to protect loved ones and when we can't, to think we've failed them."

Waving impatiently at him, Ginny relented. "Oh, I know, I know. I lived with eight men. Still, it's just... I guess I still can't process him loving her like... well, Tom Hopkins doesn't _do_ love."

Laughing, Harry bent his head to kiss her. "Is it so hard to believe? I'm sure you thought I was a jerk for the past years, no?"

"Me?" Ginny played false innocence as he raised a dubious brow. "Never!"

"Liar," Harry admonished gently, gathering her more closely so he could lift her into his arms. She obliged. "Now which way to your bedroom again?" He lowered his voice, nuzzling her ear as he marched them toward her bedroom. "There's some unfinished business between us."

"Mm... does Keeny know you're skipping watch tonight?" she asked huskily, revelling in the rasp of his cheeks against hers.

"Left an owl," he mumbled into her neck before depositing her upon her bed. "Feeling tired after the explosion... write full report tomorrow... double watch... mm, you smell good."

Ginny giggled. "I'll make sure to stock up on sweat and explosion dust."

"I think I saw some at the apothecary's the other day," Harry said as he began undressing her.

Ginny cocked her brow. "And what were you doing there?" she asked curiously.

Harry grinned up at her as he removed her socks. "Collecting ingredients for a love potion, of course." He came up to chuck her nose, then kissed it, laying down between her legs. "It worked, though, didn't it?"

"Har," she uttered dryly. "I'm amused. But seriously?" She paused for effect, and she knew it. "That potion never stood a chance." Spanning his broad chest, she sighed over-dramatically. "You, Harry James Potter, have a nice arse, and I never quite forgot it. Damn you." Supplying her words with proof, she slipped her hands into his pants and palmed said arse with an appreciative purr.

Harry's lips caught hers in a hot tangled kiss for a moment as they yanked his clothing every which way in hopes of getting it off A.S.A.P. "Likewise, Gin hon, likewise. Every single inch of you."

Ginny grinned, waiting to catch his eye. She'd wager she looked like the cat that licked all the cream and wanted more, but she didn't care. This was their night, at long last, and it was time to celebrate. "Then take me, Harry," she said as he drove himself home, making them both shudder and lose sense of time for a while yet.

#

Hermione's words resonated through his mind hours later, as drawn slowly crept and illumined the very backyard where, less than a week ago, Ron had lain the Triquetra symbol onto the lawn, effectively changing his own life forever. He still couldn't fully comprehend the last few days. Since turning into a Guardian it had become a necessity to turn off all feeling, all personal imprint, off so he could operate unhindered... unfeeling.

Yet Hermione had undone this training in mere days.

Or perhaps he'd only been reaching out to free himself of his bonds. He still didn't know. Perhaps never would.

Sitting in the loveseat he'd seen her in that first night, Ron pondered his actions even as he perused her life through a visual assessment of her belongings. Photographs, a flower arrangement, a much-used Dicto-Quill, a mug caked with moulded tea leaves at the bottom, a book... more books. Picking up the nearest title, he flipped it to read the back blurb... and quirked a brow at the copy. _It's always the quiet ones_, he grinned to himself before putting it back.

Could he fit here? Could he start his life over once again? _Would_ he ever fit? He didn't entirely belong in this world anymore, no matter that he'd vanquished the Brotherhood. He was still a Guardian, whether he liked it or not.

It wasn't over, he knew that. The destruction of the Coven had felt too clean, too definite. Not a mar. Too quiet afterward. Something was wrong with how it had all ended.

Some might say he was too paranoid, that he'd been in the Brotherhood's clutches for far too long and his ordeal had left him too marked to think clearly, but... they'd been duped, all of them. Perhaps others had found the truth, had found a way to escape. There must be.

"Why the frown?" Hermione's voice drifted over from the staircase as she descended, wrapped in a thick terry cloth robe, hairbrush in hand.

#

As he looked over, the bottom of my stomach instinctively dropped, as though in recognition of the man who had the power to make me hurl. Or rather, in recognition of the intense focus in his eyes that augured of violent vomiting in the near future. I'd become Pavlov's dog, in essence.

I wouldn't have given up Ron even if my life depende on it. That I'd learned the action-packed way. And besides, I'd gotten better at handling his colossal power discharges. Slightly.

"I think I know that look," I said as I approached, a tad cautious, as I coulnd't quite read the entirety of his expression. But I was fairly sure i knew what he'd been ruminating about since he'd given me a hint of his worries earlier.

I perched myself on the armrest next to him. "What are you thinking?"

Ron's eyes slowly sought mine, and what I saw in them confirmed my instinct. "It's not over," said simply. "I can feel it."

"How?" I asked softly, reaching over to smooth a lock off his brow.

"I..." Ron struggled with words a moment. "I... _feel_ magic, too. Not like you," he amended, "not really as strongly and clearly as you do, but it's... heightened senses, in a way."

"And you can feel them? The others?"

"I think so. It's instinct, but I feel an echo, too."

For a beat we were both immobile, the ramifications of what he wasn't saying (_I've got to go_) hitting us both. Then I leaned in, cradling his cheek, and captured his lips with mine in a tender kiss before undoing the knot of my bathrobe, and sliding over his trouser-clad thighs whisper-like.

Soon his hands sought my still-damp skin. "You're not saying I'm crazy," he remarked, sounding surprised.

A small smile stretched my lips. "I trust your instincts, Ron. If you think there are lost Guardians or Mages out there, they need to be found." I kissed him, fingers busy on his trousers. "The prophecy never said the Brotherhood would die with its leaders. It said it would _thrive_," I reminded him.

Ron let himself be divested mutely, taking me in with heavier lids. "Merlin you're beautiful," he finally blurted out.

Although there was still that self-conscious little bushy-haired schoolgirl hiding within me, his heartfelt statement brought a happy blush to my face. "So are you," I retorted softly, lowering myself over him gingerly, letting myself adjust to him.

When I opened my eyes I saw him gazing at me, an undescribable look in his eyes. "I love you," he said huskily as I began moving, slowly.

"I love you," I replied, heat spreading within me at the reverence I could feel enveloping me. "And I'll go with you. Wherever."

**THE END.**

Don't miss the sequel, _The Lost Guard_, which will come... whenever I finish the first chapter *blush* Yeah, ya'll know my reputation for being slow. Give me a freaking break.

**

* * *

Author's note**: I want to thank everyone who has read _The Guardian Brotherhood_, prodded me (forcefully or not) to keep writing (even though I never intended to stop), asked questions, speculated, squeed, etc. It was a ride to remember for me, and I'm only sorry it took me, what, seven years to finish this damn mammoth, I think? Holy crap. But hey, I'm proud of said mammoth.

Peace, everyone, and congratulate yourselves if you've made it this far, because I know I am. I'll try to get a bit of the next fic up before next year! ;)


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